


N017: Memories of a Parallel Universe

by Rhion



Series: Memories of a Parallel Universe [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: A.U, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Het, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't have much in the way of memories. It seemed like he'd always been there, but his dreams were so vivid. So real. Sometimes they were more real than the world around him. Most of the time he wished that hyper-reality was where he lived rather than this dull, cold, wet place. Where they were crazier than they claimed he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOT ABANDONED DUNDUNDUN
> 
>  
> 
> Me no own, you no sue. 
> 
> Written in 09 in WordPad
> 
> Original Notes:
> 
> Okay, I'm going to play with historical fact a bit here (um.. hello we do it all the time, right?) and use lithium as a mood stabilizer. It was used pre-1900's, then use was stopped for about 50yrs due to 'pharmaceutical companies not wanting to invest in a medicine that couldn't be patented' before coming back into use in 1949, and that was in Australia in some lab rat experiments. As this story takes place oh, I'd say 1949 or so, that means it wouldn't be in use commonly as that didn't happen for another twenty years. Deal with me monkey-ing with timelines. Oh and it's post train wreck. I won't give more than that away. Oh and also, the etymology for the words 'okay' and 'fuck' are applicable in these years and timelines. I've done my research. And I shall leave it at that. So if you feel that some 'too modern' words are well, too modern, look up the etymology, because due to complaints in other places I have taken the time to do so on my own and been proven that my stance is the correct one. Not to be nasty, it just gets tiring when ppl don't have anything to back up such claims other than their own personal experience. Which is unlikely to be objective or accurate. In general.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six is being checked over and Chapter Seven is being poked and prodded in my brain, though it's only a couple hundred words at this point...
> 
>  
> 
> Me no own, you no sue.
> 
> Written in 09 in WordPad
> 
> Original Notes:
> 
> Okay, I'm going to play with historical fact a bit here (um.. hello we do it all the time, right?) and use lithium as a mood stabilizer. It was used pre-1900's, then use was stopped for about 50yrs due to 'pharmaceutical companies not wanting to invest in a medicine that couldn't be patented' before coming back into use in 1949, and that was in Australia in some lab rat experiments. As this story takes place oh, I'd say 1949 or so, that means it wouldn't be in use commonly as that didn't happen for another twenty years. Deal with me monkey-ing with timelines. Oh and it's post train wreck. I won't give more than that away. Oh and also, the etymology for the words 'okay' and 'fuck' are applicable in these years and timelines. I've done my research. And I shall leave it at that. So if you feel that some 'too modern' words are well, too modern, look up the etymology, because due to complaints in other places I have taken the time to do so on my own and been proven that my stance is the correct one. Not to be nasty, it just gets tiring when ppl don't have anything to back up such claims other than their own personal experience. Which is unlikely to be objective or accurate. In general.
> 
>  
> 
> 2014: Clarification update notes
> 
> As mentioned in notes above, some change in timelines will occur.
> 
> CS Lewis lore - Train Accident where all of the Narnia companions except Susan Pevensie, die is 1949
> 
> 1949, Susan is 21. 
> 
> I am changing this to:
> 
> Train Accident happens 1948  
> Susan trains to be a nurse subsequently
> 
> So, it is now 1949, Susan is a nurse, and Caspian's papers say he is 25. I'll be changing this throughout the chapters, but will probably miss a few spots.

They told him he was a Spaniard who fled to Argentina, and that after the Second Great War was over, he had tried to return to Spain. And gotten stuck in Britain. But he didn't know Spanish, he couldn't remember it. Rubbing his hand over his face, Caspian felt the continual confusion wash over him. Who was he? And why did he have such strange dreams? Doctors at the veterans center told him he suffered from 'battle fatigue', that his recent memories must be so traumatic that he couldn't recall anything at all about who he was. It didn't change anything, their diagnosis didn't change that fact, couldn't change the fact that he was unfamiliar with and frightened by the simplest of things.

Which was passing strange indeed, as when a fight had broken out amongst a couple veterans who thought they were still in the middle of war, Caspian had jumped in. Laying about him with fists and feet he had knocked the soldiers out, careful to not injure them or strike their heads overmuch. The memory that when a person was struck in the head, often their thoughts weren't quite right afterwards had surfaced. At the time he had taken it as a sign of progress, but no it wasn't. So he wasn't a coward, he was capable of acting in a crisis with measured and swift action. Even so, the one time he had been escorted outside, Caspian had cowered as a loud blaring went by overhead. It was a 'plane', patrolling the surrounding sky near the 'air base'.

Since then Caspian had refused to go outside, except onto a patio where he could stare out at a garden. Changing from his patient's pajamas, Caspian pulled on the loose fitting military uniform he had been given. No one had told him why they gave him military clothes, but they seemed to fit, even if he didn't fit in. Most of the soldiers, all injured veterans with various physical or mental 'difficulties' looked the same. Pale skin or ruddy, different bone structure, different hair, different skin from his, different mannerisms, different levels of intensity. Just – different. Caspian stood out, but it wasn't any one thing that he could put his finger on. Possibly it was his accent, or his golden skin that didn't lighten much at all in places where sunlight didn't hit, but it could also be his shaggy, curly hair. A nurse had moved to cut it and without thought he had grabbed her wrist, twisting it and pinning her arm behind her back, yanking the scissors from her hand, throwing them so they buried with a loud 'thwack' in the wall. No one tried that again, but Caspian had given himself a bit of a trim when the hair around his face got to be too annoying. Buttoning the jacket to his uniform, Caspian looked around the small cubbyhole of a room he had been given.

He unsettled the other patients too much, so he had been given the privilege of a private room, and while it was the height of luxury compared to the long hall lined with cots, it still felt like a nightmarish hole to him. Glancing at the brass clock on the rickety nightstand, he decided it was time for his afternoon stroll around the dreary halls. Dressed as smartly and immaculately as those soldiers who patrolled the veterans 'hospital', he could almost pass for normal. The sterile cold white painted walls felt like they would close in on him, but he didn't show any of that, just nodded or saluted when he passed by other soldiers. It was easy to see why they had assumed he was a soldier though, his stride matched all the other veterans, the way he carried himself was similar, and his ability to know who, when and where to salute or nod came with ease. Shoving aside the memory of his hideously scarred body from his mind, Caspian made himself forget that that was another reason why they believed him to be a soldier.

"Hey Ten!" a familiar voice shook him from his usual bleak thoughts.

Repressing a groan of irritation, "Captain Obvious, to what do I owe the pleasure?" taking the few steps back to the room he had passed. Inside four men were playing cards, 'Captain Obvious' amongst them. The good 'Captain' got his name from his annoying habit of stating the obvious at the most trying of times. His left arm had been blown off, and Caspian wasn't sure if the concussion from the 'grenade' blast had addled Seymour Smythe's senses or if he had been that stupid beforehand.

"We're playing cards Ten," patting at the round table, indicating the white and red checkered cards.

"I can see that," sighing, moving further into the room. "And how does this affect me?"

Clearing his throat, "Well we have four lads to play."

Somehow Caspian kept himself from pressing his palms to his face. If only he could block out the idiocy around him, Caspian thought then he could possibly be content. There was a collection of snickers all around. Except from Seymour and Caspian. Seymour couldn't see the humour, and Caspian saw it but didn't find it all that amusing. Being baited wasn't on his list of fun and educational activities.

"Yes I can see that as well Seymour."

"Well you'd be a fifth," smiling openly.

Caspian didn't like those beatific grins, they reminded him of village idiots. And his own failings, his own inabilities. At least Seymour was happy being who he was, and knew who he had been. He suspected that the lithium helped with that a great deal. The lithium Caspian was given didn't do anything other than make him feel numb, so he usually hid the pills and threw them out later. In many others' cases the pills seemed to help, so Caspian tried not to begrudge them their numb joviality. Let them find comfort where they could.

Rolling his eyes, Caspian grabbed a chair, "Yes I would be a fifth, and yes I shall join you, but no I do not have any stakes to win or lose, so no I do not care who wins as it means nothing at all. Now, who is dealer?" plunking down, leaning his elbows on the table.

XXX

Dr. Carter's coat was always white, as well as his white starched shirt with its white buttons, and in the white box of the exam room, the much shorter white man, who also had white hair – blended into nothing. A bland little man in a bland cold little room. Long familiar with the routine, Caspian pulled his jacket and shirt off, then sat on the cot – which was also white, was nothing not white in this place? – waiting for Dr. Carter to touch him with his too cold hands.

The stethoscope was like ice where he was pressed into his chest, "Deep breath."

Inhaling, Caspian puffed his chest out as far as it would go, holding it.

"Exhale," the word sharp, "slowly!"

Obeying the commands lethargically Caspian moved allowing the poking, prodding, measuring and weighing that was typical of his weekly physical. The part when he had to turn his head and cough on command was the one part of the exam that he had to repress a violent flash of emotion – how dare the doctor touch him in such a manner? But all the soldiers went through it, and it was considered normal, somewhat humiliating, but normal nonetheless.

Clipboard in hand, button on the pen clicking as it was readied, "Now, Caspar tell me about your week. What did you do?"

Adjusting his pants, ignoring the intentional or unintentional misuse of his name, "The same thing I do every week. I get up, get dressed, go for a walk, eat, go for another walk, play cards, read, eat, go for a third walk, listen to the radio, play chess, eat, read once more, clean myself for bed, take my medicines, and go to sleep," listing it all out coolly. His routine never changed. "Repeat the same actions every day until it is time for my physical, come here rather than take my afternoon stroll, and then I go back to my regularly scheduled activities."

"Are you being cheeky?" washed out brown eyes tried to stare him down.

"Why waste my time doing something like that?" grunting.

Pen scribbling, making incomprehensible notations on his clipboard, Dr. Carter's voice was implacable, "I believe it is time you finally started seeing one of the psychotherapists. Otherwise since the lithium isn't helping with your rebelliousness," more scribbling, "my only recourse if they can't help you is lobotomy."

Biting his tongue, Caspian kept his expression neutral. Asking questions of Dr. Carter only resulted in two burly orderlies coming in, pinning his arms, while Dr. Carter pushed a needle into his arm. Which would result in Caspian passing out for several days, his body still unused to whatever was in the glass tube being forced into his system. And upon waking, Caspian would be sick for days, woozy, dizzy, and vomiting until whatever poison it was they forced on him ran its course. And all that for just voicing a concern or query.

This place was far more insane than they said he was.

XXX

Hoisting himself to sit on stone railing of his usual patio, Caspian scooted around, one leg hanging down the inside of the railing, the other tucked so that he was sitting half cross-legged. He liked this spot, it afforded him a pleasant view of the washed out green grass, with the pebbled walkways covering the mud. It rained so much here, the sound constantly coming and going, that he wondered how the hospital wasn't washed away. Rummaging in his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes he tapped the bottom on his thigh, a dirty gray-white tube popping out. Raising the half crumpled package to his face, his lips nabbed the cigarette from the pack in what had become a reflexive habit.

Many of the other men smoked, and the scent had been familiar, niggling at the back of his mind. So he had latched onto the familiarity of the smell of pungent smoke, though this was nothing but a shadow of a shadowed memory. One of the doctors would go outside and smoke from a pipe, and that was far closer to what Caspian recalled, but whenever he thought he had a handle on the image it fled. Fabric rustled as his fingers fished into his pocket once more, searching for his lighter. The weight was quite heavy, Caspian had some sort of funding available, that allowed him the little niceties like having a silver high quality lighter, and decent cigarettes. Unfortunately it didn't afford him an escape from this place.

The documentation, which he wasn't supposed to have seen but had, on the details of his arrival here, had ensured he would stay in this place a long time. He had been stopped at a department in the port of Avonmouth where he had proceeded to have some sort of meltdown. His possessions had indicated a military background, and heavy stress from the Civil War in Spain before fleeing to the country of Argentina. Lighting his cigarette, Caspian inhaled the harsh smoke, used to it now, before blowing a trail out his nose and mouth. Captain Obvious always said he looked like a drowsing dragon when he did that. Eyes unfocused, he watched nothing, while trying to backtrack his steps to the veterans hospital. After he had been restrained, calmed, and identified as a sufferer of extreme battle fatigue, he had been carted off to this hospital.

And here he stayed, being 'treated' because Spain didn't recognize his passport, and he was considered a bit of a charity case now. Stuck in this land he didn't remember, but it seemed like he'd always been here. There was no memory of his first day here, no place where he could say definitively that his memories began. Stubbing out his cigarette, the cherry scraping on stone a gentle rasp in his ears.

One of the white skirted nurses was wheeling out one of the amputees in a chair, the pebbles crunching loud enough for him to hear it from where he sat, hidden in the shadowed patio. The sway of hips drew his eye, somewhere between reflex and actual curiosity, and Caspian's thoughts stopped flitting around for a moment. Lighting another cigarette, he watched the straight line of her back, and how the curve of her hips were hugged by the all pervasive white fabric. Closing his eyes, Caspian banished his lascivious thoughts. Many of the soldiers accosted the nurses, their manners absolutely barbaric and unacceptable. And his own momentary responses to female presence weren't all that appropriate either. He was better than that, and while it was nice to have such a pleasant view of rounded bottoms or trim waists and breasts to raise his pulse, Caspian knew it was wrong to simply ogle a woman. Some long forgotten mother would be ready to thrash him if he had acted like that.

Of course he couldn't truly be sure of that. Or that he had a mother at one point to instill such beliefs. But it made him feel better to think that he had.

A nurse accompanied by an orderly came near the double doors, swinging them open behind him. Turning to nod at them once, knowing that they had come for him, Caspian took one long final drag on his cigarette before flicking it over the railing. It was a minor rebellion, throwing such a small thing as the butt of his cigarette into the bushes, but he did it as though it was totally normal. At least then it could be chalked up to his general strangeness and not to 'rebelliousness' or being 'difficult'.

Bowing just a tad to the red headed nurse, "Good afternoon Nurse Kerry."

"Hello Ten," she smiled, the vibrant crimson of her lipstick putting him in mind of fresh blood coming from lungs, so colourful and bright, "it's time for your appointment with Dr. Anderson."

The smile that had started to curve his lips froze, but he managed to keep it in place, offering his arm to the nurse, "Then shall we?"

"Oh you sly devil," she giggled, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.

All the soldiers loved Nurse Kerry as she was actually nice to them. At least that's how it seemed on the surface. But Caspian didn't like her, not really, because he had seen the vicious looks she'd send to the other 'girls' for approaching her favorite 'boys'. Caspian simply played along, it made things easier, and staying on Nurse Kerry's good side was a good idea if he wanted to keep getting such a wide selection of reading material.

His boots tapped on the linoleum floors, Nurse Kerry's thick high white shoes clicked, while behind them the orderly whose name Caspian could never remember lumbered. The orderly was there to ensure he behaved and didn't try and get out of going to the psychotherapy appointment. True, he did wish to turn on his heel and go back to his quiet spot, smoke until he had to open the second pack tucked in the cargo pocket of his uniform, but he wasn't stupid. No, Caspian certainly wasn't, and they may think he was, because he had spied the syringe in Nurse Kerry's pocket, and he wasn't going to fight at all. Unless he absolutely had to, but it was unlikely, as they didn't do it without at least some provocation. And he was the perfect gentleman – of course.

A metal door, with a glass square inset loomed. Flanking the door in the hellishly pristine white wall were two wooden benches, a deep mahogany. The colour was soothing to his abused eyes, and Caspian had to resist the urge to run to the benches and hug or kiss them thankfully. So much white, so so much white. Maybe he would go insane from all of it. From carefully measuring his reactions with the Nurse Kerry, with the orderlies, Dr. Carter or the other patients and veterans here… Then and there, Caspian wanted to scream. But the deep rich red-brown wood drew his eyes, soothing him instantly. Such a simple thing, but it reminded him to be strong. That outside these frozen familiar walls that there was more, more than his fears. Drawing strength from that knowledge, vowing he'd get out, get better, or whatever it was he'd have to do to prove to them he was fit so he could leave, Caspian strode to the office door absent of all trepidation.

XXX

Seymour was covered in blood. That was all Caspian saw for a moment, then his eyes focused, and he was moving forward, feet pounding down the hall, everything flying past him in a rush. Orderlies were trying to 'restrain' him, and the generally friendly soldier was thrashing. Other veterans turned their faces, not wanting to see, but Caspian hit the knot of bodies with a crunch.

Knocking one of the orderlies aside, arm snapping around another's neck, Caspian hauled backwards. Strangling the heavyset man, Caspian braced his feet far apart, shuffling back several steps, dragging the much larger man far enough so that he couldn't kick at Seymour. A chair was knocked over, and Seymour was shaking, body tensed, making gurgling sounds. Dropping the orderly, Caspian yanked his belt from its loops, shoving it into Seymour's mouth, and tried to cushion his head. But the damage was done.

More white clad men rushed in when the first orderly blew his whistle. Ignoring them, Caspian moved, cradling Seymour's head, concentrating on testing for sponginess in the young man's skull. As the fit continued, a nurse had come in, and was standing between Caspian and the orderlies, standing firm and immovable. Blood was still pouring from Seymour's nose, and some from tears in his scarred skin from hard shoes kicking him. In an attempt to stop the flow, Caspian struggled out of his jacket with some difficulty, always maintaining a firm hold on Seymour's chin, before he got the jacket off and was pressing it over the soldier's ruined shoulder and side.

"I think you've done enough damage," it snapped through the air when one of the orderlies tried to move forward. "Stay back for now, and someone get Nurse Kerry for goodness sake!"

No one made a move.

Gritting his teeth, Caspian roared in a battlefield commander's voice, "Go!"

The unnamed nurse knelt next to Caspian, helping how she could with Seymour. All Caspian caught was a flash of dark hair drawn back under her hat, and blue eyes, before he was too busy focusing on Seymour once more to pay further attention to her.

XXX

"Where does she get off?" it was catty, and Caspian slowed his steps, cocking his head to listen.

Knowing who was on Nurse Kerry's bad side was one of those tidbits that if he played his cards right would get him writing materials. Or maybe a new newspaper.

"She's just new Caitlin," warm and gentle, that must be Nurse Lewis, "and you don't know what the poor dear's been through."

"I don't care," huffing, "she thought she had the rank to pull that little stunt? Well I'll be telling that little floozy that my boys are mine. All mine. And she thinks she's going to be taking those charts, making those rounds. Susie has another thing coming!"

The two nurses rounded the corner, and they almost bumped into him. Ashamed to have been caught eavesdropping under most circumstances, Caspian only quirked a brow at duo. Caitlin Kerry gave him a hard look, but he smiled instead, showing off his perfect pearly teeth in his dark skin. What did she think he'd do with the information about her little vendettas? Other than fake a bit of sympathy about the fact that not everything went her way? So, he'd been caught – it didn't mean anything at all.

Waving his hand graciously while giving his customary small bow, "A pleasant day to you ladies." Walking off, he tossed over his shoulder, "And be sure to give whoever is supposed to be a floozy my room number. I could go for a little bit of feminine company."

A scandalized gasp, and a brief hiss were all the response he got. He didn't care, he really didn't care anymore. Smiling for real for the first time in forever, now that that realization had hit him, Caspian went to his dark little porch to celebrate that piece of news. Here he had been telling himself that he didn't care, and now he finally didn't! Not one whit, not about what the nurses could do to him, what the esteemed Dr. Carter would do or what the orderlies could do. In fact – they couldn't touch him, not deep down, not where the memories were.

This time here meant nothing, nothing at all. He could say what he wanted when he wanted, shock whoever he pleased – Rolling hips caught his eye. Turning his head, Caspian tracked the motion, forgetting his forced mirth. Sure that the nurse walking out on the path with a soldier leaning on her arm as he used a cane to limp about was the same woman who had helped him with Seymour, Caspian couldn't stop his traitorous gaze. She was tiny, and from behind she was built like any of the nurses here – somewhere between enticing and muscular. There the similarities ended.

She was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Leaning on the rail, enraptured with each step she took, Caspian tried to identify why she seemed so out of place. Each step was measured, just like any other woman here. And her uniform was that annoyingly neat and perfect glaring eyesore that all the nurses wore. Sometimes he wanted to rip the uniforms off their bodies, to see if beneath that white cloth their bodies were any other colour as well. Not that he ever said that sort of thing, not even in his sessions with Dr. Anderson. Down to the sensible support stockings she wore, the woman was like all the others. Yet she wasn't, and now he was going mad trying to figure out what it was that drew his eye so much.

As they moved around the garden, Caspian caught more glimpses of the unnamed nurse. But it was so far away, he couldn't make out her face. Then the pair moved closer in their circuit, and Caspian's heart started to pound. She wasn't overly beautiful, nor was she lovely. Something had scrubbed sweetness and innocence from her face, and where once she would have been the most breathtaking beauty to grace anyone's presence, now this woman was something else entirely. Despite that she was still pretty, not in the hardened perfection of Nurse Kerry, or in the soft way that Nurse Lewis was. It was just in her own way.

All it took was a glance to the side and she spied him. Caspian knew when he was seen, and his first instinct was to hop over the waist high rail and go to her, ask her name. The other told him to go. To leave and forget all of this foolishness. Some choices weren't worth making. So he made none, standing his ground holding her gaze until she looked away from him.

XXX

Dressed for bed, Caspian in his brown robe over his pajamas waited, his back braced against the headboard of his bed. Nurse Kerry would be bringing his pills by shortly and to make sure he was ready for lights off. His pen drifted over the creamy beige of his journal, doodling aimlessly keeping himself occupied for the duration. A flower began to form, with nine outer petals, seven inner and a set of thirteen very small ones comprising the innermost bud. It was a frequent motif in his drawings, random shapes that ended in sharp points then would twine out into winding round flares. All with that flower in the center of the nest of thorns.

Sighing, Caspian lifted his pen from the paper, unwilling to waste yet another page on such trivial contents. He was supposed to write his thoughts down, all of them, for Dr. Anderson's perusal, looking for clues as to how they could trigger his memories. It was unfortunate that Caspian didn't believe in the good doctor's ideas or trust them, so all that he wrote was edited. Sterilized and made appropriate for the psychotherapist's judgment.

Knocking on his door, then it swung open, "It's time for your pills."

It wasn't Nurse Kerry's voice uttering those words at all, and allowing his eyes to be torn from the page of his journal Caspian's vision pinpointed. The Woman as he had started thinking of her stood framed by his doorway, a tray in her hands. Her eyes were the strangest blue he'd ever seen, somewhere between dark sapphire and silver. No perfectly ruby lips or any cosmetics of any sort had been smeared onto her skin. And he still couldn't figure out what was so different about the Woman, because not even the absence of cosmetics could give her that oddness. She was Other, but of what sort Caspian would think about later.

"Hello," greeting her as he greeted few.

Surprise flashed in her eyes, "Hello. Are you ready to take your medicine?"

No he most certainly wasn't, and he was going to spit them out as soon as she was out of the room.

Nodding, "Of course, Nurse….?"

"Susie Fisher," gracing him with a small smile.

That didn't feel right – her name. It felt like a lie. But he didn't let that show, he rarely let anything show. So, he rose slowly, putting his journal aside, next to his brass alarm clock, making sure to make no rapid movements. He didn't want to startle her or make her call for an orderly.

"Well Nurse Fisher," taking the two cups from the tray, "I have a bit of advice. Watch out for Nurse Kerry. She does not handle change very well at all. There are times when I think perhaps it is she who should be taking these," gesturing with the paper cup with three pills in it, "and not I."

"What do you mean?"

Tossing the contents of the cup back, but tucking the pills into the side of his cheek, he made an audible swallowing sound. And pulled a face at the taste like he always did.

"You're supposed to drink water with that," chiding him.

Sipping the water, "Well yes. I find it is easier to just get it over with. As for Nurse Kerry – she does not like new things. Change only raises her ire until she either gets used to it, or things return to the way they were before." Placing his glass of water on the tray, "So be cautious."

She turned to leave, then paused, "Why do they call you 'Ten'?"

"I have no surname but the numeral 'X'," shrugging. Folding back his covers, not looking at her, "But surnames mean nothing at all, they can be so easily changed, is this not true?"

XXX

The straps bit into his wrists, ankles, legs, chest and forehead. Caspian wanted to fight. He probably needed to, who knew what Dr. Anderson's contraption would do to him? A needle slipped into his vein and something was shoved into his mouth tasting of rubber and leather. But he knew no more until he dreamed.  
 _  
"What do you mean she will not be coming?" he gaped at the trio._

_The dark haired lad sighed, "She forgot."_

_"Forgot? How…" shaking his head, disbelieving, "how could she forget?" Waving his hands about, "There was so much she did! So much that she was! She should be here, should be amongst us. Why did you abandon her to forgetfulness? How_ could _you do such a thing?"_

_"Look," he was blond, blue eyed, "she's our sister. How do you think we feel about her not being here? She lost her way, and there was nothing we could do! We tried Caspian."_

_Snarling, hand slicing through the air emphatically, "It was a failure on your part. And now she is the one to suffer? From your damnable pride? Always with your pride, you are nothing more than a spoilt boy and never were anything more."_

_"She's our sister, and you're standing there lecturing us? Who are you Caspian to question what we did? Who are you to judge?" snapping, the blond’s blue eyes narrowed. "You weren't there! You didn't have to deal with –"_

Slamming to wakefulness from the dream, Caspian was drenched in sweat. In his arm a small hose was installed, the needle digging and wiggling where it was taped down to his skin. Panting, Caspian's eyes followed the thin tube to the glass bottle that hung upside down. He had been dreaming, but it was more intense, more real – and he remembered each word said. Almost. But it was dissipating like smoke. And he wasn't in his room, his journal wasn't at hand, he was in the monitoring ward strapped down and unable to move more than his head.

Croaking, "Nurse."

No answer.

"Nurse," mustering strength, working saliva into his parched mouth.

Rapid steps fell, and there was a cup held to his lips, water dribbling into his mouth. Swallowing it greedily, Caspian drained the glass. Fingers ran through his hair, smoothing it down, soft murmurings filling his ears. Caspian wanted to hang onto the images, to the words that he had dreamed. But he couldn't – all of it fled on wings of the nebulous.

Eyes focusing, he saw Nurse Fisher, "Thank you."

"You're welcome Ten," a brief smile. "Is there anything else you need?"

"To be unstrapped," jerking at his bonds with one arm, "and pen and paper if at all possible."

Shaking her head, "I can't do that. I could loosen the straps some, but Dr. Anderson left express orders for you to remain restrained."

He growled in irritation, closed his eyes, thumping his head on his pillow several times, "It is all fleeing. I need to write it down before it is all gone."

"Before what is all gone?"

"Memories or a dream, I do not know…"


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting behind a huge desk, ensconced in a chair that was throne-like and imperious, "So, Ten, Nurse Fisher said you may have remembered something."

"I cannot recall what it was," shrugging a shoulder, hands folded over his stomach as he lay prone on the too hard leather couch. "It slipped through my fingers before I could explain anything I saw."

Which wasn't entirely true. Caspian thought he may remember something, but he wasn't sure what. More like a set of impressions that were clearer than they had been before. He knew he didn't belong here, that creeping sensation that had nagged at him all his remembered time in the hospital had become worse since the electroshock. Unable to discuss this feeling with Dr. Anderson, Caspian bottled it up, because he knew what the doctor's thoughts would be on that. Lobotomy wasn't an enticing option, and Dr. Carter had already voiced his opinion that that was the best way to cope with Caspian, and he didn't want another person to advocate that at all. From the stories he had heard, Caspian decided having part of his brain removed wasn't desirable in anyway shape or form. So he kept his more 'deviant' or 'rebellious' thoughts to himself for fear of some drastic operation being committed.

"You prefer to go by 'Ten', let's talk about that then, hmm?"

Dr. Anderson used this tone, this manner that he was just accommodating whatever Caspian wanted so that he could help him. Caspian couldn't stand it, but didn't complain about for the obvious reasons. Letting the enemy know all of what went on in a general’s mind was...unwise. For Caspian at least.

Correcting him, "It is not a preference. That is just what people call me. I do not know why they call me this more than they call me by my given name. You people seem rather fond of what were they called?" Searching for the word, "Ah yes, 'nicknames'. The fondness for 'Ten' is something external, something pushed on me. Personally I do not care one way or another."

"When you say 'you people', you make it sound like you're an outsider," Caspian didn't have to look to see Dr. Anderson steeple his fingers in front of his face. "Do you feel as though you're an outsider Caspian? Do you feel like others push you to do things, say things that are against your will?"

Well yes, he did. He shouldn't have to edit everything he thought so he could conform to some predetermined mould that the English thought was appropriate. Caspian had the distinct feeling that in other places in this world – say Spain for instance – wouldn't force him to fit into the same 'typical' and 'proper' mould that the English used. They had their own ideas of what was 'normal' there, just as people in other places had their own ideas. Unfortunately no one could agree across the board what was 'normal' because what was normal for one place, wasn't for another. The same thing applied to gender and classes. At least, that's what Caspian thought made more sense.

"I am told that I am a Spaniard," tailoring his words, making them fit for Dr. Anderson and his limited view of 'normal', "so by definition, I am an outsider here in England."

"They are no different than us," it sounded vaguely annoyed.

Grunting, "I have been reading the history books. It does not seem that this is so. At least according to my readings Doctor."

Let him ponder that. It wouldn't do any good anyway, because the man didn't want to see anything beyond his nose. Only wanted the comfort of his perfect little rows of data.

Continuing before Dr. Anderson could speak, "As I am not English, I never shall be English. That does not stop others from expecting me to act as though I were English. And that would be where others intrude on my wishes and treat me in whatever manner they deem fit." Waving his hand over his head, dismissing any actual concern with this, "But it is of no import. I do my best to fit in with whatever is presented as I have no choice in the matter. My only choices are to be conventional, act as all others or as I am expected to, or to fight it. And fighting what is best for me," spinning out that line of bullshit was disgusting and left a horrid taste in his mouth, "is an aberration. Which would only lead to me not getting better."

"Ah, but you are an anomaly Caspian," his huge chair creaked, "you don't do anything the same way as other normal people."

Frowning, Caspian tried to figure out what he could possibly mean, "I do not understand."

"Tell me why you haven't tried pursuing any of the nurses?"

The question seemed to be out of left field, "I do not understand what that has to do with anything."

"You don't find them attractive, do you," it wasn't a question.

Snorting, "Some of them are attractive enough if you do not mind something that looks entirely fake." He paused, "Though, there are a few who are quite lovely. They do not look fake at all, merely natural. I find that quite attractive."

That seemed to surprise him, "You're attracted to one of the nurses?"

"Several are quite comely," shrugging, "and I am a man, and I have the natural response to them. Why would I not?"

"Oh," and he sounded so strange that Caspian half sat up, glancing over the armrest of the couch. The doctor looked utterly flabbergasted but tried to cover it up, "So, who has grabbed your attention?"

Sitting up, legs swinging around, "I still do not understand how this has any bearing on how I do not act normally."

"Just answer the question Caspian."

"Nurse Lewis has a sweet smile," conceding, "and a very nice… figure. I am sure that under most circumstances I would pursue her for those reasons alone."

"Anyone else?"

Going tight lipped, "I believe that that is sufficient Dr. Anderson."

Making a face, "Then tell me why you haven't attempted any amorous actions."

"It is not appropriate," shrugging, "as I have no intention of dishonouring them or tainting their reputations, I have not acted in such an unseemly fashion. Why do you find that so strange?"

Dry chuckling, "You are how old Caspian? Twenty-five according to your files, and you should be married by now, yet you're not. So you should be looking…"

"How would you know if I was or was not married?" grunting. "As I do not know if I am or not, that means that I could potentially be betraying my spouse if I were to… chase skirts." Sneering, "I have some standards and codes Dr. Anderson. The fact that I cannot be certain of my marital status does not change the fact that there is such a thing as fidelity. I would much rather err on the side of faithfulness than mere… animal lust." Standing up, "I am no dumb animal to be led around by my baser instincts. Perhaps that would be why I do not fit in with you English. I have seen enough of you and your men here to see these infantile, dishonourable, and disgusting habits to know I would not wish to be a simple slave to my desires." Glancing at the clock, "My physical with Dr. Carter is in twenty minutes, and the session ended nearly twice that amount of time ago. I require a moment to breathe fresh air if you will excuse me."

Anger flashed in Dr. Anderson's eyes to be quickly repressed, "Of course. One thing Ten," stressing the name as though he were pushing Caspian intentionally into that hated mould, "take a few of these. On the off chance you do decide to give into your 'baser instincts' like the dumb animal you are." Small squares were pulled from a drawer and tossed onto the top of his desk, "Ask Dr. Carter to instruct you in their use. We don't need you contracting anything."

Scooping them up, "What are they?"

"Prophylactics, they prevent the spread of disease," glaring.

Moving to put them back on the desk, "As I find it unlikely that I shall be debasing myself anytime soon – I do not need them."

"Take them," it was an order, "and you should try acting like everyone else. And use one. Preferably by the time of our next session."

Blinking in disbelief, "You are telling me, nay – you are ordering me – to have congress with a woman? With a woman I have no intention of wedding, let alone maintaining any sort of relationship with? Are you daft?"

"Do it Ten, prove that you're just like everyone else here."

Snarling, Caspian pocketed the cardboard squares, spun on his heel and stormed from the doctor's office.

XXX

_The huge Lion was drowsing in the sun. Caspian wasn't clear on what he wanted to say, or what he intended to do. Hopefully it was the right thing. Approaching Him cautiously, deeply troubled, Caspian tried to ignore how bright the sun shone. Everything was gilded in golden beams, the grass a deep emerald and blue, reminding him of the sea. Wind made each blade ripple, and the air was sweet, somewhere between warm and cool, just the perfect temperature. Everything was perfect here. All was well. And nothing was out of place or made for sadness._

_Yet there were things wrong, there were things missing and out of place. And in this lovely, wondrous land, this perfect paradise – Caspian was angry. Anger – an emotion he had thought left behind in the land of those who lived their brief lives bound to flesh. This…_ disturbed _him. Frightened him. Only Aslan would know what to do, but Caspian could not expect Him to fix everything. Man was not Aslan's creature. They were foreigners in His Country, His Land, His World. Accepted humanity may have been, but only in His World did He have any true control over them, and only there did He work at all times for all, which also blanketed the transplanted humans._

_Stepping lightly, Caspian continued forward, inexorable. He had a purpose, and Aslan could at least give him guidance or assuage the twisting of his gut. But everything had a price, which Caspian well knew. Aslan's help was freely given, because He loved all His children – Created and Adopted – but there was also a balance. And that balance required action bearing a price. Despite that, Aslan could at the least tell Caspian some of what had happened to cause all this._

_Stopping several paces from the Lion, Caspian knelt on both knees, hands clasped before him, beseeching, "Great Lion might I speak with You?"_

_"Of course My Son," He rolled from His side, turning to face Caspian. "Speak freely and know that I listen."_

_"The Gentle Queen," swallowing, his heart feeling like lead in his chest, "she was not amongst her siblings."_

_"She is no longer a friend to Narnia," it was an unhappy sigh._

_Blinking the tears that formed, "How could such a thing come to pass Aslan? She loved this place, loved these people, loved You. How could she no longer be a friend to Narnia? Susan bled for all, fought for all. Sacrificed for all." Voice choked with emotion, "Edmund tells me that she forgot. She lost her way – how can that mean she is no longer a friend? Are all who become lost to be discarded? Should we not guide those who are blind to the light, so that they are safe?"_

_Huge golden eyes slipped open and closed, the light seeming to intensify and dim with the movement, "Of course they should not be abandoned."_

_"Then why leave the Queen to this fate?" shaking his head, pleading. "Is there nothing that can be done? Someone must do something to guide her feet when she cannot do it for herself."_

_"And who would do that, who would take her hand and guide her when not even her siblings were able to?" Crossing His paws, Aslan tilted His great leonine head back, "The bonds of blood were not able to keep her on the path."_

_"Is it hopeless then?" Shoulders slumping, Caspian fell forward, his hands digging into the soil, "It is wrong, it is dishonourable, no one should suffer like that in the Shadowlands! Least of all someone known so much for her gentleness."_

_The quiet stretched, Caspian pressing his forehead into the ground. He couldn't believe that Susan was to be left in the Shadowlands when she deserved access to Aslan's Country just as much as the other Pevensies. Yet it seemed like nothing was to be done. That just didn't fit with his sense of duty, his sense of honour. Someone had to do something. And if the Pevensies weren't equipped to do it, someone else had to try._

_A gusty sigh, honeyed breath floating on the air, "It is not hopeless. And yes, it would be wrong to leave her in such a state."_

_Head snapping up, eyes wide, fingers digging into the earth, "Not hopeless?" Nostrils flaring, "What must be done?"_

_"Someone must go to the Shadowlands," Aslan stared at him long and hard._

_Straightening up, "Then I shall."_

_"You do not understand Dear One," He cautioned, "it is not a world like Mine. It is no place for you."_

_Face darkening, hands fisting, "And why would that be? If her siblings are unwilling, incapable, and uncaring why should I not be the one to go? There is no one else to do so it seems."_

_"Are you set on this course?"_

_"Will You send me if I am?" challenging._

_Sometimes life, or theoretically death, required decisive and bold action. Caspian was nothing if not bold or decisive, his upbringing had ensured that. But his life had taught him diplomacy and mercy. And strength that had nothing to do with his physical prowess._

A voice called to him, waking Caspian up, "Ten? You really should go inside to take a nap. You'll catch your death out here."

Eyes flying wide, Caspian jerked, almost falling off the railing that he still sat on, his back against the concrete wall. Nurse Fisher was there in a flash, her hand going to his elbow to steady him. Regaining his balance, Caspian raked his fingers through his messy wet hair. Rain had fallen hard, driving on a slant, and it hadn't woken him at all.

"Paper, I need paper," hopping off the rail, brushing past Nurse Fisher.

"A memory maybe?" voice bringing him up short.

Turning, he saw her holding a pad and a pen, offering them to him.

Looking from the prizes to her and back again, he reached for them, hand hovering, "Possibly."

She gently pushed the items into his grasp, "Then you should write it down."

"Yes," accepting them, but he felt instant suspicion. Why had she been carrying such things? And why give them to him?

"Well?" she gestured, "Aren't you going to write it down? You should do it before you forget."

Licking his lips, "I…"

"If it'll make you feel better Ten, I'll go ahead and leave," Nurse Fisher smiled, but it was tight, like her feelings were hurt that he would think ill of her, "but just make sure you come in soon and dry off."

Eyes darting around, uncertain, "You may stay if you wish." Trying to smile, "Otherwise I may fall asleep once more, and who will be there to rescue me so fortuitously?"

XXX

The nightly knock came, and then in came Nurse Fisher. Caspian much preferred her presence now that she'd taken over for Nurse Kerry, she didn't look at him with that predatory gleam. Straightening up on the bed, Caspian closed the little notepad she had given him several days ago and put it away.

"Have you written much in it?" setting the tray down on his nightstand.

The last few times she'd come in she had stayed to speak with him some. He liked that, even if it was just her job. And even if it was probably at a doctor's behest.

Shaking his head, "Not really, no. A few sketches. A word here or there. I keep looking at it all, like the answers are right there. But," sighing, "I feel as though I am blind, that my feet have strayed from their intended path."

"Well I hope you find the answers you need," she handed him the glass of water first.

Reluctantly he took it, "So do I." Reaching for the paper cup of pills – he had to get those in his mouth first and tucked to the side, otherwise the water would make his mouth too slippery to keep from swallowing them before they were in place, "But I do not think it will happen anytime soon."

Before his fingers closed over the cup, Nurse Fisher's hand intercepted his, "Drink your water first, then take your pills. It keeps the nasty aftertaste from happening."

"I prefer my way," steel entered his voice.

Blue eyes level, steady as a rock, "Caspian, have you been skipping taking your medications?"

"If I have, then you would have to report me," hoping she wasn't bluffing. Hoping she wouldn't do something like that.

"What could make you not want to take them," she paused, "if…you weren't taking them that is?"

"Have you noticed how the men here are… lethargic? Numb? Or friendly all the time?" whispering. "Or perhaps the pervasive…. Apathy. I am numb enough Nurse Fisher, things seem foggy to my eyes as is. If I were not taking my medications, would I not be more alert? More… myself?"

She studied him, then nodded once, the cup crumpling under her hand, "So it wasn't just me. It's supposed to help, and I think it does for some. But," she pocketed the wadded up paper, "I think you might be right. So, now that you've taken your meds, I'll let you finish getting ready for bed."

Biting his lip, "Nurse Fisher, thank you."

"You're welcome," her full mouth curved upwards gently. The touch was impulsive it seemed, her fingers moving to brush the hair from his forehead, "Get some rest. And you shouldn't neglect that other journal I think. Dr. Anderson's been asking about you."

Back stiffening, "Pardon?"

"I figure I should warn you, just like you warned me about Caitlin," fingertips so soft, the touch small but it sent heat through him. He was touched so rarely, he allowed it almost not at all. "A good turn deserves another."

"Does she make things hard for you?" wanting her to stay longer, to keep him company. Caspian felt somewhat human with the nurse around. Especially right now, with her huge blue eyes looking at him like that, like she actually gained pleasure from the time they spent together. Like he made her feel real in this unreal place.

"Sometimes," shrugging. "But it's not so bad that I'll quit. I need the job and I find helping soldiers makes me feel close to my brother."

"He is a soldier?"

A shadow passed over her face, "He was a soldier. He became one because… well – why did you become a soldier?"

"I imagine it was because I had to," Caspian got up, surreptitiously checking his door. It was mostly closed over, and as he never made any trouble at night, orderlies didn't stand guard over his room when a nurse was in with him. "As it was for him as well. That is the only reason to become one."

Fidgeting, a hand flew up to smooth a curl at the nape of her neck, "That makes sense. I just wish there was no need for them, no need to call anyone to arms."

Moving closer to her, "Where there is power, land, money or ego on the line… there will always be war or conflict. And so there will always be a need for soldiers." The dip in her waist was calling to him, and Caspian didn't fight it, much. Taking hold of her hand, making sure to keep the touch light and soft, "And where there are soldiers there will always be those in need of help, of a kind voice. To remind them that they are human and not the killers they are trained to be. That being a soldier is supposed to be about protecting hearth and home, not about making war. Only guarding against it."

"It's almost time for lights out," but she didn't pull her hand from his, "You're the last one in line, and you have a few minutes to yourself. You should take them."

Squeezing her hand, "Many of my minutes are to myself Nurse Fisher." Backing away, Caspian went to sit back on his bed, "Good evening, and may your eventual rest be easy."

XXX

Finding a somewhat comfortable position on the couch, Caspian turned the page of his book. In the background, he could hear Captain Obvious slur his victory cry, the game of poker leaning towards the soldier. He didn't tune it out, because Caspian didn't like how Seymour's health had been deteriorating. His muscles would twitch, his arm, or a leg bouncing about, and the shortest orderly always seemed to take offense at this. As though Seymour lost control of his muscles at will, and the squat orderly would go to 'calm' Seymour, as though he had something to prove. Caspian didn't like bullies, and had the distinct feeling that he never had.

There was the added risk that any beating that Seymour suffered could trigger another fit of convulsions. It had already happened two more times after the first. If only to himself, Caspian admitted he was worried by that, and by the fact that Seymour's pills had been increased to triple the original dose. At breakfast there would be a cup for Seymour, then at lunch, and of course before bed. Rather than getting better at all, he was getting worse.

Adjusting his long frame, scooting a shoulder to the side, Caspian peeked over the edge of his book, scanning the room. Thankfully the room wasn't quite so blindingly white, a washed out creamy beige painted the walls, and the linoleum floors were speckled with black over the dingy snow bases. At the entrance to the sitting room, a table with three men dressed in white uniforms sat playing cards, only paying a passing attention to their wards. So Caspian watched, doing a damn sight better job than those who were actually paid to work here, making sure no one caused trouble by spotting it before it started and going over and giving a stern look to whomever may start anything. The other patients differed to Caspian, even though he made many uncomfortable. There had been an occasion earlier this morning where two men had come to him seeking a neutral third party point of view, and Caspian had given it of course. He didn't want any problems to crop up for anyone, and if him listening to their issues prevented that – then so be it.

"Oh hello Charles," a parcel was tucked under her arm as Nurse Fisher entered, and one of the veterans stopped her, "how has your day been going?"

Charles scratched the back of his head as Caspian watched, "It's much better now that you're on shift Nurse Fisher." Beaming beneath his blush, "You really brighten things up."

Laying a hand on his shoulder, patting it, "Thank you Charles, and you boys certainly make my day worthwhile."

Listening with half an ear, Caspian unobtrusively observed, "Really?" At Nurse Fisher's nod, Charles blushed even brighter, "Well that's really swell!"

Caspian could tell that Susie actually meant it, and all the other patients could too, and that was why she was replacing Nurse Kerry in their hearts. He didn't like thinking of Nurse Fisher as 'Susie' but it was better than 'Nurse Fisher'. Neither name fit her at all, and when she was so gentle with everyone here, so giving despite everything – it confused Caspian all in all. She had become his new puzzle, there was a falseness to her name, just as there was to her being here. Susie didn't fit in here, she stuck out just as much as he did. And that in of itself was what made her so important to him now. Figuring her out was symbolic of figuring out why he was here and what he couldn't remember.

Drawn from his wandering thoughts, the object of them hove into view, "Hello Ten."

"Nurse Fisher," not bothering to hide the warming of his tone, "a pleasure as always," rising to give her his customary bow.

She quirked a round brow at him, "You needn't rise for me."

"One should always rise in the presence of a lady," keeping the place in his book with his thumb as he dipped briefly once more.

To that she laughed, "Oh I'm no lady!"

Unwilling to naysay her, Caspian kept his own counsel on that. For when she moved amongst the men, smiling, chatting, listening and nodding, so focused on each person – she was as regal and lovely as any gentle queen.

XXX

_"I never took you for an artist," Queen Susan's voice came close to breaking his concentration._

_Caspian glanced up from the crisp vanilla cream of his drawing pad, "I am not much of one, but it does bring me pleasure."_

_Coming closer, the Gentle Queen paused as he made room on the bench for her to sit, "What sorts of things do you like to draw?"_

_Shifting even more, Caspian leaned the leather covered wood binding away from the thick cotton paper so that she could see, "Whatever comes to mind." Tracing a sweeping swirl with his blunt fingertip, "I see shapes and if I like their line I draw them. This is what I saw from that branch over there," pointing to a willow off to the side, "and I just… traced it. As I said," shrugging, "I am not much of an artist."_

_"It's still quite pretty," he allowed Susan to take his drawing from him so she could examine the seemingly meaningless twists, turns, circles and spirals, "even if no one but you knows what inspired it."_

_The coronation was over, and Caspian had the distinct feeling that this would be his last conversation with the Gentle Queen. And here they were wasting it on something so trivial as his talentless artwork. He watched as her eyes skipped over the page, thick and thin lines pulling her in. If anyone could say anything about his doodlings accurately, it was that once one started looking over it, that it was quite hypnotic, for it relinquished the eye only grudgingly._

_Reaching out he closed the book with a soft thump, "Careful or you will injure your eyes."_

_"Caspian – " he rose not letting the Queen finish._

_"I know my Queen," holding out his hand for her to take, "I know, and I accept for there is no other recourse. I can only attempt to be as graceful and wise as you and your siblings are about this. Then again," unable to stop the spillover of bitterness, "I have stood on my own two feet without anyone to lean upon for most of my life. As King why would it be any different?"_

_"Is that what you think?" her huge blue eyes gazing at him with sadness. "That you will be alone? Oh Caspian, don't ever think such a horrid thing."_

_Forcing himself to shake it off, Caspian tried to regain his aplomb – after all the Gentle Queen had come to say her goodbyes to him, he shouldn't spite such kindness, "As you say my Queen. Accept my apology, I was being rude."_

_"Caspian," she took hold of his hand with both of hers, staying seated as she gazed earnestly up at him, "you will never be alone. You will always have Aslan's Love, and you will always have your people. And," her smile was soft, small, and more brilliant than the sun, "you will always have the love, trust, and friendship of the Pevensies. And if all that isn't good enough – well poo on you."_

_Unable to stop the laugh when she coupled the last with crossed eyes and a stuck out tongue, Caspian squeezed her hands gratefully, "Now if only I could have your wisdom!"_

"Oh that's quite lovely," antiseptic and honeysuckle filled his nostrils as Nurse Fisher leaned over his shoulder, peeking at what was on his drawing pad.

She had snapped him from the daydream, and he wasn't sure if he was appreciative or not for that action. There had been a woman, his wife possibly, for he had had warm feelings for the young lady. But he couldn't be sure. And he could recall nothing more of her other than strong hands, soft callus on her fingertips, and a voice that was able to soothe even the most savage emotion. It was gone, anything else he could have grasped from the memory-dream-hallucination. He couldn't be sure any of it was real anyway.

"Thank you," taking a deep breath, Caspian ignored the sterile alcohol scent in favor for the light and sweet that was also on Nurse Fisher's skin. "I am quite thankful for this," shifting the artpad against his knees where it was propped. Looking out over the gray-colourful garden from his perch on the railing, "It has been nice to have something to draw on. Now perhaps I shall be able to spare my journal so much of the abuse it suffers."

"I thought you'd like it," she nodded, seemingly pleased, "and I thought perhaps it'd be easier for you to draw those unseen vistas you gaze at for so long."

Brows beetling in confusion, "I do not understand."

Leaning her elbows on the rail, "You stare off into the garden so much, like you're seeing something there that no one else can. Like you know that there's something there, but it's just out of reach. It's as though you know the route back to some secret place, and you wished to leave here, but you don't for some strange reason. I do so wish I could see what you saw," her voice turned wistful at the last. Then she let out a nervous laugh, "Sorry, you must think me silly for such a flight of fancy!"

Studying Nurse Fisher in this new light, Caspian shifted on the railing, crossing his legs underneath him, uncaring of the precarious balance, "I do not think you silly." Gathering his thoughts, staring at her intently even as she avoided his eyes, "I think that you may be more perceptive than you believe. There are different layers to everything in life, different faces and actions for each person that we come across. It is possible then that," encompassing the garden, the patio, the hospital and themselves with the wave of his pen, "there is more to all of it then, is it not? We all have our secret places, and perhaps we just lose our way. Would it not make sense then, if as we get older we forget those things that make us ourselves, those things that make life worthwhile?"

"You sound like my little brother," her voice became distant, and heavy. "He was very introspective and spent so much of his time thinking and dreaming those things that no one but him could see."

"The same brother who was a soldier?" keeping his voice easy.

Shaking her head, "No. That would be my elder brother."

"Ah," if their positions had been different, Caspian would have taken her hand. But sitting on the rail like he was, and her too far away left him unable to do more than just watch her.

Nurse Fisher stared off into the distance, eyes unseeing. But no, they were seeing a path to some secret place, some path that she could no longer walk. He wasn't the only one who searched for those hidden places that had made him who he was. Caspian wasn't sure right then if it was getting older that left people searching for that which they had left behind, or if it was something else entirely.

Opening his mouth to only snap it close, Caspian glanced away, following Susie's line of sight. The depth of the swirling maelstrom of the young woman's emotions was palpable even from where he sat, and what could he do about it anyway? Although she hadn't come out and said it, Caspian was sure that the young men she had mentioned were dead. That left her alone in this world, otherwise he was sure she would have said something of her family. She seemed the sort to speak of those who were important – if they were alive that is. As unlikely as it may or may not be, Caspian was sure he was correct in his assessment, that Nurse Fisher was utterly alone in this world, much like he was.

Seeking to distract her, "Would you care to accompany me in my afternoon stroll Nurse Fisher?"

Jerking in surprise, her dark sapphire eyes had swirled into even deeper a midnight, and at the corner of one luminous eye was a small shimmering crystal. The tear stayed where it was, newborn and not fully formed, like the words that came close to bursting from the dams that she had put up. All that and more Caspian could see, and it mirrored his own feelings of bewildered loss and aimless confusion. In the end Nurse Fisher smiled at him tightly and nodded.

"I think I could do with a walk," slipping her hand as though it were a once familiar custom of hers into the crook of his elbow after he hopped down from his perch, "thank you Ten."

"As always the pleasure is all mine Nurse Fisher," inclining his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Caspian and Seymour were playing cards, just the two of them, at a small table by one of the dingy windows. In his hand the thin cardboard rectangles contrasted with his dusky gold skin, but unlike most things, the shapes didn't seem out of place in his grip. Selecting a four of clubs, discarding it, Caspian moved to replace the card with a fresh one from the stack.

Seymour forced him to pause, "You look troubled."

It came out slurred, like most of Captain Obvious' words now, and while it could have been an obvious statement, it may have been truly perceptive. On average Caspian looked some form of troubled, a distant faraway gleam to him, screaming out how Other he was. Something to how Seymour said it alerted Caspian to the honesty of his words in spite of all that.

"What would I have to be troubled over Captain Obvious?" staying neutral.

He wasn't of the habit of sharing himself at all on any level. Not here. At one point… probably. But not anymore, and certainly not with someone he couldn't be certain of. Seymour would mean well, but he couldn't be trusted.

"Gee, I don't know Ten," a sharp bitterness entering the words, "what would you of all people have to be worried over?"

Eyes darting up to lock with Seymour's, unable to hide his surprise, "I am not sure if sarcasm suits you."

Quiet descended, and Seymour's momentary strangeness passed.

It was Caspian who broke the silence next, "Is Susie a normal name?"

"Huh?" Seymour gave him a funny look.

"Nurse Fisher's name seems strange to me, is it a normal name?"

He shrugged a shoulder, "Of course it's normal. Like Nurse Kerry, some of the boys call her Kate or Katie."

Shaking his head, "You people are incomprehensible."

Twenty minutes later their game was finished twice over, and Caspian got up to leave. He wanted a cigarette and some breathing space away from so much misery. Neatening up the cards, shuffling and cutting the deck for Seymour and whoever would join the injured man for another game, Caspian did his best to not think.

As he was leaving, "It's short for Susan."

Halting mid-step, Caspian glanced back, nodding his thanks, "We should play poker tomorrow."

"Yeah, that'd be good."

XXX

"My week has been pleasantly uneventful," Caspian gestured to the journal that the doctor was going over.

"I can see that," the book snapped closed. "Which I find passing strange indeed. You are twenty-five Caspian, do you not have the urge to action the same way most of the rambunctious youth have?" He leaned forward, "Or have you acted on those urges the way I suggested?"

Grunting, Caspian rose to pace the office, "I do have the urge to action. And no, I have not availed myself of any female company of that sort."

Dr. Anderson watched him like a hawk, the weight of his judgmental stare making Caspian want to pace faster, but he held steady despite that, "What sorts of actions would you enjoy Ten?"

That forced him to think for a moment before answering, "Horseback riding. I miss that, miss the feeling of horseflesh and saddle as I become one with my steed. Running over hill and dale, going through the trees…" trailing off. His shoulders itched like there was a weight that was familiar on them, but the sensation passed along with the one that was at his hips. Hand passing through the air near his waist, as though his fingers were questing for a customary friend that rested there and was rewarded with nothing. Sighing, "Sailing, the wood creaking as the hull was slapped with water, the cloth of sail snapping… I miss those actions, yes."

"And how do you know you miss those sorts of activities Ten?"

Shuddering once, Caspian moved to sit swiftly, "I just know. As I know that the sky is blue, and that fire is hot, I know that those things are familiar to me and that I am pained by their absence."

"Interesting," jotting a few things down. "Ten, how do you propose we get you doing these sorts of things once more? Have you set foot outside of the building other than the one time?"

"I do not like… the sounds that the planes make," only just keeping himself from snapping. Getting a reign on his temper, "And even if I did, I do not see anyone allowing me access to a horse let alone to a sailing vessel. This speculation is meaningless."

"That is untrue Ten, we're here to help you," Caspian came close to laughing, but made no move, not even a flicker of eye to betray his thoughts, "and you know it. How can I help you if you won't let me?"

Shifting around, crossing his legs, eyes skipping over the books on the shelf on the opposite wall from where he sat, "I am… unsure at times of the… desire of others to assist me sir. As I have seen very little evidence and sign from Dr. Carter or the orderlies, my ability to trust that is tried at times."

Caspian wasn't sure if that was a slip-up on his part, or his mind playing one of its games of manipulation of those around him to protect himself… But it seemed to work. Dr. Anderson looked speculative, deep in thought. Allowing the doctor to believe that Caspian just needed some greasing to make him come around and actually trust the psychotherapist, Caspian sat back and watched. The fewer questions he was asked the better, the less he revealed the less he could have used against him. Each thing he said, was all aimed at preventing something from happening, what Caspian wasn't sure, but still certain things were imperative.

Pushing away from his desk, Dr. Anderson rose, turning to look out the window, "My colleague, as well intentioned as he is, is limited in his own way. Much of what ails you Ten is in your head, not in your body. Dr. Carter doesn't understand that, while I do. He thinks that all that must be done to help you is to poke this or that body part." Moving around his desk so that it no longer separated them, "I know that to fix you I have to have you trust me. So that we can work together on the sickness in your mind."

"And how do you propose I work with you," turning his own words against him, "when I am constantly under pressure to act in certain… manners? When I do not trust you?"

Face darkening, "You should trust me because I am your doctor, Ten. I know what's best for you."

Drumming his fingers on his thigh, "I imagine many fathers say that to their sons, and expect the son to actually listen. Do you think it works?"

Before Dr. Anderson could say anything, Caspian got up to leave. His session was over anyhow. Caspian and Dr. Anderson had learned much from the interview, but Caspian wondered if Dr. Anderson was even aware of what had been said and its implications.

XXX

He was prepared this time for the sting of the needle, and the taste of rubber and leather in his mouth, but Caspian didn't want another one of these sessions. It wasn't like he had any choice in the matter. Counting backwards from ten the way he had been told, Caspian fell asleep before the electroshock therapy began.

_"May I speak with you my husband?" Esther's voice was cool and sultry._

_Turning with a heavy heart, Caspian nodded, "Of course my love. What troubles you?"_

_She moved to stand beside him, taking his hand and twining their fingers, "Nay, 'tis not what ails me, but you husband. Since they came you have not been yourself. This is a happy place of peace and all encompassing love."_

_Raising their entwined fingers, he kissed her knuckles, "That it is."_

_"Yet you are not yourself," Esther stroked his cheek with her free hand, and he reveled in the comfort her touch brought, "talk to me my dearest."_

_"I have spoken with Aslan," trying to engrave the image of his lovely wife in his mind's eye, "on the fate of the Gentle Queen."_

_"That is a sad thing indeed, to think she will not be coming here to her true homeland," shaking her head, her thick blond braid slipping from her shoulder with the motion._

_Looking down at their hands, a flash of guilt stabbed him, he would be leaving his wife behind if he took this task on as his, "She was blinded, and lost her way. Queen Susan needs a guide to help her find her way back to us, to this place, to where it is that she belongs."_

_Esther's fingers were soft, soft as rose petals and they caressed him from his neck, down his chest to his belt, "Then I assume you shall be leaving to ensure she comes home."_

_Startled, Caspian saw understanding and that distant not quite human love she always bore him shining in her eyes, "It is the right thing to do."_

_"It is what you would do," red lips turning up in one of her lovingly reserved smiles, hands moving over the buckle to his swordbelt, "it is what the man I have married and born a son to would do. And so it is what you shall do my husband."_

_Taking Esther into his arms, Caspian dipped his face close to hers, "I may not return. The Shadowlands are perilous. I myself could lose my way."_

_"You will succeed, and you will come home…"_

"Esther!" choking on the name, Caspian strained against the bindings that held him secure. "Esther!"

His back arched as he hollered over and over again, frothing at the mouth, Caspian twisted. The thick bands didn't seem to do much in holding him down, because they appeared to become more loose with each of his jerks. Hurried steps chimed on linoleum, but Caspian paid it no heed, calling out his wife's name. His wife, he had a wife! And he knew this!

Roaring, "Esther!"

"Caspian, Caspian," the voice was achingly familiar as it called to him, and he sensed a shadow at his bedside. "Caspian, please calm yourself, I don't want to sedate you…"

Head lolling to the side Caspian's unfocused eyes found the shadow, "Susan?"

But it was too late, other nurses had come because of his screaming. Nurse Kerry was descending on him, a syringe in hand, and she looked far more frightening than gentle Nurse Fisher. Despite his struggles having ceased, the wickedly sharp needle thrust into the meat of his forearm like a weapon and he gasped. Rather than let his last vision before the oblivion that was being forced into his body be of Nurse Kerry, Caspian locked gazes with Susie, seeing her shiver of horror as his eyes dimmed before rolling back into his skull.

XXX

Rough terrycloth swept over his forehead, soothingly cool and damp despite the scrape of the cloth. Sighing as he sweated out the double dose of toxins, Caspian tried to hide how miserable he was from Susan. Another wave of nausea washed over him, and Caspian rolled weakly to his side in time to dry heave. A bucket was pushed closer just at the right moment to receive the bitter, thick, sickly green contents of his stomach. Strong hands kept him steady as he coughed and gagged, and Caspian wanted nothing more than to crawl into some dark hole and die of self-disgust. Nurse Fisher stayed by his side as his body tried to purge out the evils forced on him by doctors and Nurse Kerry.

"Do you think you could drink some broth?" once he had flopped back, wrung out as his room spun.

Gathering the strength to speak, "My thanks Nurse Fisher."

"Of course, it's my pleasure," and for that Caspian was also grateful. He didn't know how he would respond if she had said that her actions were nothing. They meant too much to him for her to discount them as common or meaningless to her. "I've got it right here," shuffling and a bit of tinkling of glass as it was removed from his dresser.

Caspian did his best to scoot into a seated position on his own, but didn't exactly manage, "It smells wonderful." Actually it smelled horrible, but at the moment everything was too strong for his sensitive nose, and he could taste everything he could smell. And everything was heavy and bitter, so that when the air hit his tongue all he wanted to do was spit.

"I know you probably don't feel up to eating, but," getting comfortable on the edge of his bed, "you really do need something in your stomach."

Reaching for the bowl, "I bow to your greater wisdom and knowledge in this arena Nurse Fisher."

"You're so gracious," verging on teasing, she inclined her head to him, with a little wink.

Surprised, Caspian laughed briefly, "I do try ever so hard."

Spoon held up to his lips, rather than allow him to feed himself, Susie sniffed primly, "And your efforts don't go unappreciated."

It was difficult to accept Nurse Fisher's proximity momentarily as she leaned in to push the spoon between his lips, but he fought off the strangeness. He couldn't be sure, but the dream he had had told him that he had left a woman behind. On the verge of pulling away from Susie, Caspian forced himself to stillness.

Sensing the change, "Is something wrong Caspian?"

Shaking his head, and wincing at the mistake that was, "Not at all Nurse Fisher."

"Please," the spoon chimed softly as she put it back in the bowl, "you are always so formal. You know you need not be so constantly polite with me."

"I apologize, I am overtired Nurse Fisher, I," unable to stop himself he looked at Susan, "should try to rest some. It has been a trying day."

Pearly teeth sank into the flesh of her bottom lip, drawing his eyes, "I understand. The electroshock does seem to put you all out of sorts."

Swallowing, Caspian rolled over, presenting her with his back, "That it most certainly does."

His body was traitorous, and the baser instincts that he had said he fought so hard to Dr. Anderson were making themselves known. Susie's closeness, his physical weakness, and the trauma of having electrical pulses sent through his brain made it near impossible to hold onto the fact that he really had remembered something. And it changed as well as enforced his earlier self-imposed laws. He would not break oath with a wife, though he only vaguely remembered having a memory of her, and she may have only been a figment, even so he wouldn't break faith with her. Nor would he simply be prey to his body's desires, needful and natural as they were, for he wouldn't pursue something with another person that he had no intention of honouring.

Nurse Fisher, no, Susan was far too tempting. And he ached so badly, and she was so calm, how easy would it be for him to lay there and look at her pitifully until she leaned in to brush her hand over his forehead? From there he would not have to work hard to gain her sympathy and her lifted skirts. Even though she wasn't the sort, she wouldn't be on her guard against his charm. She trusted him to be honest and a gentleman. He could no more violate that trust than he could commit adultery. His body fought his mind, and betrayed her as it stirred strongly as Susan rose to leave. Biting his tongue while squeezing his eyes closed, if he turned to watch as she left he would speak. What he would say, he was unsure of that, but he could be certain that whatever he said would cause her to stay longer and tempt him further.

"She must be something very special," the words were quiet, but they shattered his resolve like a hammer blow.

Rasping, "I do not follow?"

Tray and bowl made sounds as the so-called Susie Fisher moved, setting things away so she could leave, "I'm used to the men's looks, they look at all of us like that. All they want is a connection to something soft. They don't fight it." Her heels tapped as she came closer, and the waste bucket scraped as she moved it back to its place, "But you struggle tooth and nail. So, I think that whoever Esther is, she must be very special to make you fight so hard to remember her, and to ignore all those around you who aren't her."

Until Susan had said the name, Caspian had forgotten. That was how easy it was for him to lose his hold on those memories, those dreams. All he was left with were impressions. In that moment Nurse Fisher gave him his life back, but it was only for a moment. An all too brief flash. Even so he was eternally in her debt for such a simple gift, and there would never be enough that he could do to repay her.

"I am just a man," hoarse and he found himself studying the way her calves were rounded, and how her knees had faint little dimples on the sides. "And as much as I may crave something, I know when I could do someone only great injustice by taking what I desire so badly."

Cleavage came into full view as Susan leaned over him, and the taste of her perfume wasn't foul in his nose or mouth. Lips that were over plump reminding him of the colour of fresh raspberries pressed to his sweaty temple. His fingers tightened on his bed linens, all he wanted to do was reach out and take hold of that silly little hat on her head, tear it away and pull her hair into waves so that he could bury his hands in the dark locks. It was all he could do to fight that short insane moment.

A second kiss, this time to the side of his nose, "And for that you are more than a man, and I envy Esther for her luck in having you all to herself."

Whispering, "Is it not you that is here, rather than she? Currently it is you who has me all to herself."

"Silly man," pulling away and giving him a gentle pinch to his chin, "sleep well. You're addled with all that morphine still."

Blinking owlishly at her, "And here I thought it was your intoxicating presence."

"You're such a dandy flirt," but she was looking at him with that special light in her eyes.

Caspian prayed that she left soon, or he would respond to that glow with all the heat in his own body in spite of his infirmity. So far he had managed, but eventually his resolve would snap. Recalling the fact that he was promised to someone only made things worse, not better. Now his body fought him, as well as his mind, and dare he say it – his heart too. But it was only because he was grasping at straws, searching for a connection to something soft as Susan had said.

She held him trapped with her eyes for a moment more before she glanced away, "I'll check on you later. You need to keep your fluids up or you'll get even sicker than you already are. And then Dr. Carter will pump you full of more medicines."

"I do not think I respond well to such treatments unfortunately," groaning, Caspian sank back further into his bead, thankful that she had broken the tenseness between them.

XXX

_They walked side by side, Aslan keeping His pace slow enough for Caspian to keep up. Grass released its gloriously heady essence with each step that crushed the delicate blades. Caspian had decided on his course of action, and that he was willing to bear whatever the cost was for it. He had said his goodbyes to his wife and son. When he had made to speak to the Pevensies, he had found himself unable to say a word. What could he say? That he was going to go to the Shadowlands and do that very thing that they had been unable to do? No, that would be prideful and full of spite to do such a thing._

_So at the last moment, he had turned around and walked away. Even though he had ached to talk to Edmund about the land he would be traveling to, to learn more of this round world that hung in a vast sky that was not the center of its universe. To have gained the other's insight would have been invaluable. But he couldn't do it, and so he left to try and walk this path on his own._

_"My Son, this thing which you plan to do…" there was a gusty sigh, "it is a difficult thing. I will not say it is impossible."_

_Glancing at the Lion, "Great Sir, there is nothing I can do. I have made my decision, no matter the cost to myself, I will see it through. I must."_

_"Do you understand what you stand to lose Caspian if you fail?"_

_Raking his hand through his hair, "It does not matter. My mind is made up, as I have said several times. Uncertainty may have room in my mind, but it has none in my actions nor my breast."_

_"You shall be going to the Shadowlands. Every reality you know now will not be so there. Each thing you are familiar with will be gone. It is a place of torment to those from a higher plane. Are you still willing to go?"_

_Caspian mulled it over for a moment yet again, making sure of himself. Queen Susan was not part of his family, at least no more so than the other Pevensies. Truly it should be one of them willing to risk so much for their sibling. But it was obvious that they hadn't tried hard enough, or had fallen prey to pride or despair in their own rights. Was he so much stronger? He shared no **direct** bond with the Gentle Queen, other than the blood bond of having been a ruler of Narnia. That in of itself should have been enough reason. It should have been enough for her siblings as well. But it had not been. So how could he think that he was strong enough to succeed where they had failed so horrendously?_

_But he had lived many years. He had ruled many, many years. Fifty some years of being King, of having loved, lived and lost and experienced... Gazing off into the distance, seeing the Pevensies playing as though there was nothing wrong... "Tell me what I must do to go on this journey."_

_After all - they were just children. Pride ruled one, despair another, and blind hope for the third. Those things combined had blinded each of the three to what needed to be done. Just children, with not enough perspective, not enough experience under their collective belts to have found a way to guide and protect their sister. In truth, though they may not have noticed it in all those years they had shared life and their regency, while they did protect one another...they seemed to be unaware of just how much she had sacrificed to give them the choices they had, to give them her own particular brand of very subtle protection. And when she had fallen prey, her strength run out, they hadn't known what to do...and now Susan was trapped, while they forgot their worries, likely grateful to just set it all down, even at the loss of their sister. Not that Caspian believed them **quite** so callus to feel losing the Gentle Queen was a fair price to pay for their current peace, but he didn't see them having managed sufficient cohesion to have effected any benefit for her, or even, really, themselves. Children without the guidance, love, and protection of their mother, left at loose ends, stubbornly maintaining their own courses and whims. If he didn't understand it so well and those pitfalls, Caspian would be disgusted. Still, he couldn't bring himself to face them at the moment, and if he never returned, well..._

_Aslan's warnings didn't fall upon deaf ears, he had been listening. And he would succeed. Just as he said he would, even if he didn't make it back to Aslan's Country, Queen Susan would. He would ensure that it would happen no matter his personal cost. There had been many centuries of him being happy here, he had had his bliss. Now it was time for someone who deserved it just as much to have her chance._

_"You will forget Me in your mind, but not in your heart…"_

With a jerk Caspian looked around suspiciously. He was falling prey to these dreams more often now, and they were at inopportune moments that he fell to their spell. Blinking the fading images from his eyes, he tried to hide what had happened from the other patients in the room. No one took note, they were too engrossed with their own daydreams to notice Caspian's own mental wanderings.

Susan came each night to ensure he 'took' his medicine, but no longer did they speak. During the day she would smile and pass him by, and he would nod, trying desperately to not watch as her hips rolled with each step as she moved onwards. For some reason he felt more adrift now that he knew a name from his past than he had when he had nothing to cleave to. Dr. Anderson had been on him for a month now to pursue one of the nurses, and that mated with his confusion over Susan with a healthy dose of guilt over this 'Esther' that he could not recall, left him painfully ill at ease.

Functioning so close to the edge of his tenuous control, Caspian wondered how much longer he could last before snapping. Whatever reason he had left was wearing away with the grinding days, and those things he used to distract himself were slowly being removed from usefulness. Seymour was confined to bed rest almost all day now, and Caspian had not made any connection to another patient, so that now he was even more alone. With Susan and he no longer on speaking terms, though nothing negative had passed between them, Caspian only had his reading left to him. Writing had proved a temptation for an all too brief period, and drawing had little appeal either – it could be discovered and weighed and judged by others, giving insight into his thoughts that he didn't wish anyone to have access to. So now he sat, watching nothing at all. Sometimes he sat here in the recreation room staring blankly at the other patients, or he sat outside on his patio. No one came there anymore, unless it was to find him, as Caspian had chased all potential companions away.

A terse word or chilly look would send most packing, and now Caspian didn't even stand on propriety. Gone was the formally polite veteran, and in his place stood Caspian, a distant, silent man who chose being alone over everything else. Seymour had only dug past Caspian's defenses initially because he was oblivious to the barriers, and Susan had breezed through in her own way. The fact that she was Other was what had enabled her to weasel her way into his inner circle – but now she was shut out. For a moment, Caspian felt a pain in his chest, he wanted to speak with her, hear her voice. Perhaps she would go off on another flight of fancy, or they could talk about those strange things that made him think of walking sideways for some strange reason. But he didn't get up, he stayed seated.

Despair hung in a heavy pall over Caspian, and he didn't even know from where it welled. He could be certain of the when of its creation, and it bore the name 'Esther'. Truth be known he didn't like the state he was in, it felt foreign, like it was something he may have once been prone to, but as an adult had managed to throw off the mantle of moodiness. The difficulty was that Caspian had no clue as to how to remove himself from the situation, to regain his normal faculties. If Seymour was more energetic, or if Caspian felt he could talk to Susan without fear of acting inappropriately, perhaps he wouldn't be in this state. But that meant relying on others rather than his own strength.

Perhaps tomorrow he would do something, but at the moment he was too worn out. So he stayed seated and brooded, arms crossed, glaring at nothing.

XXX

"Caspian?" the door was cracked open, Nurse Fisher popping her head out.

Craning his neck so he could glance over his shoulder at her, "Nurse Fisher, what can I do for you?"

She seemed uncertain, a frown pulling at her face, "I was wondering how you're doing. We haven't spoken much of late."

Pushing away from the balustrade, "I have not spoken much of late to anyone at all Nurse Fisher. Is there some issue with that?"

"Oh," her eyes widened at his tone, and he felt a sharp stab of remorse for how curt he had been with her, "no, not at all. If you are well then, I'll take my leave of you. Good afternoon."

"Susan," raising his hand, Caspian fought the desire to pull her out onto the patio with him. "Susan," clearing his throat and thrusting his hands into his pockets as he shuffled his feet, "I have been rude, I beg your forgiveness."

"Caspian, my name's Susie," but she stepped clear of the door, letting it close behind her. Hand still resting on the handle, she looked anywhere but at him, "I don't like being called Susan."

Raking his fingers through his hair, "Again I must beg your forgiveness. I thought that it fit you far better than 'Susie'. I meant no disrespect."

They stood like that, not quite looking at each other as each tried to figure out the next move in their dance. Blaring noise whirred overhead, interrupting Caspian's thoughts, and he cringed, falling to his knees, hands clapping over his ears. The air was rent by the cacophony, and Caspian whimpered, eyes scrunched shut. Startled even further by hands on his wrists, Caspian jerked away, but the grip was firm.

Tugging at his wrists, Nurse Fisher was prying his hands away from his ears, "It's just a plane Caspian, you're safe, it won't hurt you."

Shuddering, Caspian snatched at Nurse Fisher, hauling her close to his chest, and pressing to the ground. Panting in terror, Caspian didn't know what to make of the 'plane' and its hellacious noise. He knew that others said that the planes wouldn't harm him, but he couldn't believe it. When he had listened to some of the other veterans they had given him proof of the lie that the doctors and nurses told him about the planes. It was from planes that death rained down from the sky, in great gouts of fire. Explosions would rock buildings, and stone would crush the hapless, all the while the turbines would grind as the air was raped. So no, he felt he had good reason to fear the planes. And he had no way to fight one, no way to prevent loss of life if the rain of hellfire fell, and that left him utterly helpless.

Crushing Nurse Fisher closer to the patio floor, doing what little he could to protect her, he waited for fiery death to come down. Minutes later the sound had faded finally, and no crashes had come. But Susan's hands were in his hair and on his face, words echoing in his numb ears.

"Caspian you have to let me up, Caspian wake up, you're safe," the litany soothing.

Twitching all over once, Caspian forced his hold on her to relax, and he let out a sigh, "The plane has left? It is over?"

"Yes Caspian, you have to let me up now," a desperate note entering her voice.

Alarmed Caspian pulled away, scanning the porch, then over Susan for injuries, "Are you harmed?"

"No, I'm fine," sitting up, she fussed with her little hat, then her uniform, "I just didn't want anyone finding us like that."

Blushing at the realization of how they must have looked, "Yes that would have been rather compromising. And yet again I must beg your forgiveness for my actions. I should leave before I give offense a fourth time."

"I'd really rather you not leave," it was soft, "I miss talking with you, you're the only one of the lads who treats me as more than a set of breasts."

Wincing while he still knelt, face scrunching in chagrin and guilt for how his own thoughts would wander at times, "I doubt that that is how they treat you entirely."

At least he hoped so, for their sakes. If someone were to be rude to her, Caspian wasn't exactly sure how well he would handle it if he were to witness it. The flash of ire and jealousy was hard to clamp down on, and had no right existing in his mind, but that didn't stop him. Making a face at his own irrational behavior Caspian stood, and made to assist Susan.

"Oh they're not disrespectful," sighing, taking his hand with hers and Caspian hauled her to her feet easily, "they're just desperate as I've said before. They only like me because they think I'm pretty, and because I have these," gesturing to her chest, "not because I'm nice to them."

Her comment bordered on crude, but it was also just the honest truth. If she had been a man the men wouldn't treat her the same. Or if she had been homely rather than comely like she was. Making another face, because he himself was acting much as the other patients did, Caspian berated himself. How much would he crave the gentle nurse's company if she had been less easy on his eyes? Then again, glancing at her once more, as though he were seeing her for the first time, technically she was far from being the prettiest of the nurses here. There was something to her manner that called to him, that and the fact that she was Other. So it had very little to do with what she looked like, the attraction he felt. But in all actuality she was still gorgeous, it was more than just her manner that made her so.

"As lovely as your assets are," ruefully Caspian did his best to not stare now that he was so close to Susie, "they are not your only beautiful attributes."

Laughing, "And to think I thought you didn't notice me at all."

Caspian's face darkened, "That is far from the truth Nurse Fisher as I am sure you are already aware."

It was her turn to flush, but she didn't move away from him, "I'm sorry Ten, I didn't mean… I'm sorry I shouldn't flirt with you knowing how you feel about things."

"The flirting is not a problem," putting space between them, "there are other items that I take issue with."

"Talk to me Ten, I miss it," the sensation of her hands cupping his was eerily familiar, "tell me what it is that you have such problems with. I won't tell, I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Caspian held it a moment, gathering his thoughts. With a short sigh he moved to the side, tucking Susan's hand into the crook of his arm, "I feel that I must stay faithful to a person that may or may not be real. And if she is real, she may or may not live."

"You said her name with a great deal of love," more wistfulness, and Caspian began leading Susan off for his early evening stroll. She followed willingly, and he let her lean into his arm, the top of her head not quite reaching his shoulder even with the boost of the thick heels to her shoes, "I imagine that she is real. There's no other explanation otherwise."

Side by side they meandered through the halls, quietly spending time together. More was said without words as they walked in companionable silence than had ever been uttered before. How close Susan stood next to him, and how she lay her other hand over his forearm so that she held his arm with both hands, so close that Caspian could feel her heart beat in her chest where it was pressed to him. He accepted the gesture with one of his own, occasionally covering her pale slim hands with his as he kept their pace slow. At times he would open a door for them, gracefully guiding her through the opening as though they had done this every day of their acquaintance. Susan's belief in him, in his life before, and the way she smiled at him renewed his strength.

When he had stolen enough of her company, Caspian disengaged gently, bowing low over her hand and kissing her knuckles, "May you have a beautiful evening Nurse Fisher. And I shall be so bold as to give you my heartfelt thanks for your time and your company. It has lightened my heart when I thought it could not be assuaged of shame."

It didn't look forced at all how she dipped into a short curtsey, "And I'm glad of the time spent together Ten," it looked utterly natural and regal.

That was a curious thing indeed, but he only noticed it later that Susie was capable of the same genteel civility he took for granted in his own actions.


	4. Chapter 4

Nurse Kerry scowled at him, "You spend a lot of time with Nurse Fisher."

Not bothering to look up from his game of chess, "I spend very little time with Nurse Fisher in all actuality my lady." Getting up, Caspian circled the table, and squatted looking over the pieces on the board – he was playing against himself, and while true any way one looked at it he would both win and lose, Caspian intended on getting the most from the game. To each side he gave his all, attempting to outsmart himself without taking into account any of his thoughts from the other vantage point. Selecting a rook, "It is that I rarely spend time with anyone that causes you to notice me speaking with Nurse Fisher at all."

"You know she's a floozy," it was said like she was revealing a great secret. "I hear she got the clap from – "

Cutting her off, "As it does not concern me, Nurse Kerry, I do not see why I would need this information. I am but a simple Spaniard and your English ways confuse me at times, so perhaps you could explain to me why it is that I should care if she is a floozy or not?" making sure to look at her with wide innocent eyes.

Actually well he knew what Nurse Kerry was doing, and what she meant by telling him such things. While it was within the realm of possibility that Susan was all that Caitlin Kerry was saying, it didn't matter. It was not as though he were some prince himself, or that any man here was perfect either. Not only that, it wasn't like he were pursuing Nurse Fisher in any fashion at all. He welcomed her company and her friendship, just as she seemed to honestly welcome him. That was reason enough for him to question Nurse Kerry's words and their validity. Caspian was no stranger to gossip, nor was he as unobservant as some probably thought – he knew what many of the nurses and soldiers did. Sexual escapades meant little to nothing to him, who was laying with who, the when, where or why bore no importance of any sort in his mind. So Nurse Kerry's accusations and attempt were done with little skill and even less information.

Nurse Fisher, as far as Caspian knew, not that he cared, was not party to any liaisons whatsoever. The rumor mill had Susan laying with him if anyone at all, while the tally of Nurse Kerry's conquests was truly… inspirational. If one was impressed by such things. Which Caspian wasn't. It could not be said that Caspian didn't approve what went on, because he wasn't one to judge – and he judged everyone here as human. Which implied that they had needs beyond the simple food and shelter sort, needs of a physical and emotional nature. Just because he didn't partake did not mean he thought less of those who did, except in Nurse Kerry's case. Spite made her ugly, and she had given into the evils of weak will. At some point Caitlin Kerry had changed and Caspian felt sorry for her rather than angry. Something must have made her the way she was now, and only time would tell if she were to change once more.

Waggling a finger, "You just be careful Ten, she's trouble."

Seymour shuffled in, leaning on his cane, "All women are trouble, right Ten?"

Casting a glare at him, Nurse Kerry sneered, "Shouldn't you be in bed Seymour dear?"

"I got enough sleep Nurse Kerry," beaming brightly at her, "and I wanted to see Ten. Isn't it swell Ten that I'm feeling good enough to play some cards?"

Lips quirking, "Indeed it is quite… swell… that you are doing well Captain Obvious. If you would take a seat, I am still in the middle of a game of chess."

"Well gee, who're you playing? There's no one here but you," Seymour ignored Nurse Kerry utterly as he clomped to the small table.

"Well I – "

"Nurse Kerry," turning to look at her mildly, "perhaps we could enjoy this conversation some other time on the finer points of English etiquette?"

Narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose over pursed red painted lips, "I suppose so Ten."

Once she was gone Caspian took the chessboard apart, setting it aside, discarding the game in favor of spending time with his friend, "How have you been feeling?"

"Tired," voice worn out the injured soldier twitched, looking off into the distance. As he moved his head, Caspian could see the pink and white mottled scars on his neck, "Very tired."

Caspian didn't know what to say to that. Seymour was certainly not himself, but perhaps he was more himself than he had been in the past – Caspian couldn't be sure. It was perfectly possible if Seymour hadn't been on the lithium that he would be this fatigued husk rather than the happy-go-lucky Captain Obvious that he was used to. Whether earlier had been a purposeful act or not, with Seymour rescuing him from Nurse Kerry, Caspian couldn't know this either.

"If you are feeling up to it I have a cigarette with your name on it," offering the only comfort he knew how.

"You do get some nice ones don't you?"

Rising, Caspian gestured, "Do you think you could make it to the porch? Some fresh air would do us some good."

"Yeah, sure thing Ten."

XXX  


_"So I shall forget You? I shall forget all that is Narnia?" Caspian found himself curiously unafraid of this._

_"Yes, you will not remember Old or New Narnia in your waking mind," Aslan watched him, taking his measure one last time, "and never will you truly remember it. Not even if you give up hope, not even if you give up the small kernel of faith and belief in your heart. You will lose all that you know here, you will lose sight of Me, lose knowledge of Me."_

_Sighing, "Truly the Shadowlands do sound to be a place of torment." Squaring his shoulders, "But I will keep faith in my heart. I have loved You too long to ever give that up, to ever lose it. Unless it is wrest from my breast forcibly I shall never lose sight of You in my soul." Caspian maintained the Lion's gaze, "And I know that I am in Your heart, I know that You love us all. I am secure in this, and so take my knowledge, take my waking mind, because not even You can take it from my innermost places."_

_"Nor would I even attempt such a thing My Son," a large nose pressed into Caspian's palm. "You have made your goodbyes then?"_

_Nodding, "You know that I have."_

_"Much of Me wishes to dissuade you from this course of action," but the tone was only encouraging, "for I do not wish to risk you."_

_Smiling easily, confidently, lovingly at the Lord of Narnia, "But You desire both Your children to come Home. I understand," leaning in Caspian hugged the massive neck gratefully, "and I thank You from the bottom of my soul for this chance to bring my royal sibling to where she belongs."_

_"If any of My children were ready to succeed in this, it would be you, for as much as you have suffered, you have grown and kept your heart open to My love no matter how dark your life was…"_

_Inhaling the thick honey scent that lay heavy in Aslan's mane, "I need no memories to feel Your love, or to keep myself open to it. If it had not been for the Gentle Queen and her reminders when I had needed them the most, You would have lost this son of Yours at one point. But, now I shall endeavor to ensure You regain both of Your children safe and sound."_

_Taking a step back after basking for long minutes in His presence, Caspian nodded his readiness. Aslan blinked once, a crystalline tear forming at the corner of His eye that fell to the ground. From the moment the droplet touched the grass and soil, it radiated outwards in a ripple to lap at Caspian's boots. Pain roared in his mind, a horrific wrenching that made him scream out his agony. Through the wavering of his slit eyes, Caspian could see that his pain was echoed in Aslan's face, and Caspian forced himself to calm. To peace. He would not torture the Creator further by his weakness. Even if Aslan would still feel his pain, and in turn feel a horror of His own that one of His children suffered. At the least Caspian could ease it, and demonstrate his own love, his willingness to bear this burden without regret._

_At the last moment a brilliance filled his vision, before it was displaced by gray drab blackness. Streamers shot to the sky, twinkling, and winking down from on high. The last little bit of conscious mind that was Caspian the Tenth, King Caspian the Navigator wondered only briefly at the new star that hung high overhead. And then reality twisted and was displaced and Caspian was –_

"You're having a nightmare," cool fingers lay on his hot brow.

Gasping, tossing and turning Caspian whined in the back of his throat, "Susan?" He forgot that he wasn't supposed to call her that, that she was Nurse Fisher, that he had to be formal with her, "Susan please, I am… I am frightened."

His small bed creaked as she sat next to him, "What are you afraid of?"

"I have lost something precious or forgotten it," whispering, his vision swam as he got used to the darkness of his room.

"You don't mean your memories, do you?" a palm brushed over his cheek, and he could vaguely make out Susan's form through the faint trickle of light that came from his cracked open door.

Making no move to sit up, Caspian flailed, attempting to take hold of Susan's hand in his, "I am unsure. This… frightens me. I cannot bear to lose more of my soul, not when so little of it is left."

Susan sat with him, her fingers rubbing at the spaces between his knuckles, stroking the back of his hand and tracing meaningless patterns over his palm and wrist. She was quiet a long time, so long that he thought she must think him asleep. Or that perhaps she wouldn't say anything to his statement.

Rather she did speak, breaking the quietude gently, "I think more of you is intact that you realize Caspian. Your memories may not be here, but what makes you, you isn't what you hold in your head. At least not entirely. And I don't think anyone can take that from you."

"Will you stay a moment longer Susan?" shifting so that he could lean over and take a firmer hold on her hands with his, rolling to his side. If he squinted he could make out the glimmer of metal in the dip of her throat. That was new and it gave him a point to focus on, but he didn't bring it up, it wasn't polite. "You have never stolen into my room before at so late an hour," his mouth not quite checking with his head before it spoke.

Generally it did, but it was relatively harmless that his words were not edited. Rarely did he worry much when in Nurse Fisher's company. At least not for fear of offending her, but only for possibly reaching out in such a way as to disrespect someone who had been nothing but kind to him. In the end she rewarded him each time he spoke, each time he shared by answering him in the same manner.

"When I make my rounds I always pop my head in," a note of teasing entered her words, "so I guess you'd like me to steal into your room more often? Possibly at later hours?"

He wanted to tell her that yes he did, but he changed the subject to less dangerous waters, "What is your favorite colour?"

"Mint green," coming out in a curious murmur. "Why?"

"I wished to know what to think of you wearing in place of that infernal uniform as you sit upon my bed," scooting around, trying to find a more comfortable position. "It makes you look washed out. You should be draped in finer things, in clothes that let you shine. I would like to imagine you dressed properly rather than… swathed in cold sterility."

The shadow shifted and Susan leaned down over him, and he caught the scent of her powdery perfume on her skin. Tilting his head up, Caspian inhaled deeply when she kissed his forehead. Such a small gesture, and it was more meaningful to him than if she had slid beneath the covers nude next to him for the comfort it brought. She curled her arm over his head, and she stayed hovering so that if he moved his head to one side or another he would be touching her. Of course he didn't move, he only wanted to fall asleep surrounded, and it was like she knew this and granted him the safety he needed to do so. A second kiss was stroked over his face, this time it seemed to be more for her and less for him, and he didn't begrudge her it. They stayed like that until he fell asleep much later and he awoke only enough to register Susan leaving his side and his door clicking shut before slipping back into a this time dreamless, sleep.

XXX

The stone was rough under his hands where he gripped it tightly. It was tempting to jump over the railing, the drop was short, not much more than a meter or so and he would land next to the bushes. For once the sky was warm and blue, even if it still looked painfully washed out to him. And some madness seemed to have possessed his limbs and Caspian wished nothing more than to fly over the handrail and go and frolic in the garden like a child. All in all it was so blastedly tempting, the thin layer of fresh snow on the ground making everything new and crazily familiar. Even the fact that snow was white couldn't curb his desire. But in the end he held back, because while he knew safety was an illusion, if planes were to come and drop their payloads a silly porch roof would not protect him, yet still he cowered away from open ground.

A giggle that sounded girlish and out of place came from behind him, "You look like a hound ready to slip his leash after he's caught the scent of game."

Turning Caspian glanced from Nurse Fisher back out to the garden longingly, "I like the new snow, it is a lovely thing to play in."

"Play? You don't strike me as the sort," she tucked her red knit sweater more closely around her shoulders.

Curious, "What would make you say that? There is nothing wrong with a bit of laughter and childishness. It is good for the soul."

Watching as she took the few steps to stand close to him, she leaned her crossed arms on the rail, "You're always so serious Ten, even when you jest. It's always so dry when you make light of something that I had thought that you were incapable of something so silly as wanting to play in the snow." She flushed, most likely at the realization of how she had sounded - like she thought him dull and lifeless. Caspian hadn't taken it that way at all, he knew Susan well enough by now that she only thought highly of him so he waited patiently for her to get her thoughts in order. "Oh dear I've gone and put my foot in it, haven't I?"

Raising a brow, "Not at all. Do continue to tell me how boring I am, I have not had my fill," purposefully adding a sonorous and serious cast to his tone and taking on a rueful expression.

"You really are a silly man sometimes," she swatted at him playfully, and he was rewarded by her smile. Cheeks pinching up and she seemed to glow ever so lightly, "I just meant that I thought your natural state was one of severity now. It never entered my mind that you could be playful. It's actually… nice. It makes me wonder what you were like as a child…"

His mirth came close to fleeing, and Caspian shifted so he could stare out at the sparkling garden. The sun had only just truly risen and the sky was so crisp a blue, not a cloud to mar the view. At least, not that he could tell, because the garden was walled in by the wings of the hospital, and that cut off most of what he could see. What had he been like as a child? Caspian couldn't answer Susan and that would bother him under most circumstances, but he thought he could choose what he had been like, could make it up, if only it would bring a smile to her full lips. Smile she did rather than let the pensive twist enter her visage as it usually did when she stared out into the garden.

Deciding to see how much more he could make her smile, Caspian hopped onto his usual perch, but faced fully outwards, his legs hanging outside the porch and swinging back and forth like he were a child once more, "I was most likely a ruffian like most boys."

"No," she shook her head, "I don't think so. I think you probably sat off to the side watching everything curiously and when no one was looking you would scamper off like a squirrel."

Giving her a funny look, "And why would I do that?"

"Because Peter was a 'ruffian' as you say, and you're nothing like he was," putting name to one of the brothers she almost never spoke of, but was never far from her thoughts.

Impulsively Caspian reached out, running the side of his finger down her cheek, "And so I am squirrel like and would scamper about." Swallowing, Caspian used his legs to push off the porch, and he twisted as he landed between the bush and the wall of the patio, "And scurry. Must I scurry?" cocking his head worriedly.

Caspian thought it wasn't so bad, he was still in the shadow of the porch, he wasn't on open ground. Not exactly. There was a thin strip of dirt between the bushes of the garden and the foundation of the hospital and that was where he stood, pressed close to the stone. He was tall enough that though his feet were on ground and the patio was raised up, his eyes still topped the balustrade. Taking a deep breath Caspian took a step backwards and to the side, so if he leaned backwards he could see more of the sky than he had in all the time he had been in the veterans hospital.

"Caspian! What are you doing?" standing on her toes, Nurse Fisher leaned over the rail. "Are you… are you quite alright Caspian?"

Breathing shallowly, Caspian had only thought to make her smile more and to do a bit of the gamboling about he so desired to do… But he miscalculated, he didn't feel safe where he was, and Caspian couldn't think. He had planned on running back and forth, possibly making a snowball and throwing it at a tree trunk. His pulse was throbbing, and he was trying to figure out how to get back on the porch without having to move a single muscle.

"Caspian?" she was becoming alarmed he could hear it, but he couldn't respond. "Caspian, I'm coming," and she had to wiggle and hop to get up onto the rail she was so small, the nearest entrance to the garden itself was inside the hospital and would entail Susan leaving him for long minutes. That appeared to be something she was unwilling to do, and he only just registered that.

Snapping out of his reverie enough to reach up and steady Nurse Fisher, Caspian shuddered. He was so far gone he didn't even think to glance away at the flash of leg or the sight of her under things. Later on he would berate himself for such uncouthness, but at the moment all he could do was hold tight to her waist as Susan maneuvered to sit on the handrail before jumping down. Shivering, Caspian kept his grip tight on her waist, half expecting a plane to fly by overhead. It was a small boon that no such thing happened, and after a time Caspian calmed.

"Are you back?" it was soft.

Nodding, Caspian let his gaze focus on Susie, "Yes. I am… sorry I only wished to –"

A finger pressed over his lips, stilling them, "It's fine. I appreciate it, but do you know what I'd really like right about now?"

"Anything you like my lady," mumbling, praying that he could deliver on whatever it was that she would desire.

"Do you think we could walk to the door? I don't fancy climbing up the way I came," her nose scrunched as she grinned impishly, "because this time you may actually take a look at my knickers and what sort of girl would that make me then?"

Clearing his throat, "It would make you no particular sort of girl, but it would make me very much a human man, with very human failings if I were to take a peek at your underthings." Glancing away, "I assure you I would do no such thing."

She rolled her eyes at him and made a face, "And what sort of girl would it make me if I'm a bit offended if you wouldn't take such a liberty?"

To that he had no response, his mouth opened and closed a few times before snapping shut audibly. Coughing into his fist, trying to regain his balance, "Ah…"

"Alright then," she hooked her arm with his and began hauling him to the door, "I'll try not to have my feelings hurt that you've no interest in me whatsoever…"

He didn't even notice the fact that she was teasing him, Caspian only heard that she thought he found her unattractive. All in all Caspian had thought he hid such a fact from her only very poorly if at all and that he had also been somewhat upfront about it in his own way, but it was possible that he had been too circumspect. Then again Caspian didn't wish to violate his oath to Esther. Pausing, Caspian realized he'd almost entirely forgotten about the fact that he wasn't free to pursue Nurse Fisher for more than one reason. Up until he had recalled Esther's name, Caspian hadn't made any overtures to Susan because of his mental instability. Now he had to be doubly careful, it was not just Susan Fisher he was protecting, but Esther – even if he couldn't remember a single damn thing about her as a person.

Digging in his heels, Caspian pulled them to a stop, "Nurse Fisher I feel I must clarify things for you, as it seems that I have not been as clear as I believed."

"Excuse me?" surprised, she halted only reluctantly.

Uncomfortable, Caspian shuffled, squared his shoulders then forged on, "My mental state is not the most ideal and so that is partially why I have not pursued anything of any sort with anyone." There, he got that part out of the way, it wasn't so bad at all… Onto the hard part, the part that he felt should be the most important and always on his mind, yet for some reason – wasn't, "And then there is my possible marital status. Esther – I may not remember anything about her at all, but as you claim that I said her name with so much emotion… I cannot bear the thought of dishonouring a woman I was promised to. So that would be why I have not made my attraction to you more clear, for it is inappropriate for me to act in such a manner. But," looking her straight in the eye, "it is not because I do not care for your company or your looks, but merely my own personal morals that prevent me from doing so…"

Shoulders shaking, Susan ducked her head, and Caspian became exceedingly distressed – he hadn't meant to upset her! Then laughter began to peal, filling the small courtyard garden and his mind with the sound. Now he was not just uncomfortable but confused – perhaps she had become unhinged with his frankness? Caspian certainly hoped not, it hadn't been his intention to hurt Susan in any way, shape or form, for he quite cared for her. In his own way Caspian was worried about the fact that she had become so much the focus of his thoughts and his day, because it wasn't something he felt was right or fair to her.

Waving a hand around while the other was held over her mouth, "Cas… Cas… Cas.." she doubled over again like she were trying to catch her breath, "Caspian! Oh you silly, silly dear man!"

"Susie?" not understanding, Caspian tried to assist how he could, taking hold of her by the elbows he supported her, not wanting her to fall over. If he had thought she would become hysterical, he would have thought his words over with greater care.

Before he could question her further, "I was teasing you!" Thumb and forefinger went to his chin as she gave him a light pinch, "You're just too sweet for words sometimes Ten."

Bewildered, "I do not understand…"

"Oh dear I've confused you, haven't I?" shaking her head. "Well then, I was only trying to distract you from the fact of our location," jerking her chin at the garden, and Caspian suddenly noticed that they were on fully open ground, "so that I could get you back indoors where you feel safer. That's all. And you silly wonderful man, you thought I was actually complaining?"

"Yes, well, I, ah…"

"And so earnest, so polite about it…" the glow was back in her face, and Caspian was more entranced by it than usual, already discomforted and thrown off balance by the events of the last few minutes and he didn't notice that he was leaning down, closing the distance between them, "and trust me I understand your reasons." She grew serious, and Caspian could feel her hand, feel it pressed into the center of his chest, the pressure reassuring, "Your state of mind as a whole Caspian is the only reason I haven't done anything. I wouldn't want to risk hurting you for the world."

Brought up short, Caspian flushed, finally registering how close he had come to kissing her, and not in the fashion she had kissed him before. No, he had been on the verge of kissing her as a man kisses a woman to declare his intentions, while every press of her mouth to him had been the sort that a woman gives to a man to comfort him. At least, most of the time that was the sort she had given him, a time or two she had kissed him in that way that meant she was taking comfort from it for herself rather than giving it.

"I do not think you could hurt me," keeping his voice low, "you are not the sort of woman to hurt anyone."

To that she looked away, a hint of shame tinting her cheeks, "Maybe that's how I used to be, and how I'm trying to be again. But Caspian, you don't really know me. You don't know the horrid sort woman I was for far too long… Of how I hurt those I loved…"

"Your actions now speak loudly," finishing closing the distance, brushing her forehead instead of her mouth with his, and there he left his lips as he continued speaking, giving her his support and trust, "in the end, all you have is the here and now and the future to show others how you are. The past… is the past."

It was convenient to forget that those words also applied to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Tile slapped beneath his bare feet and Caspian ignored the other men around him. It was time for his shower, for which he was grateful – he hated the sensation of grit on his skin. The air of the hospital always left Caspian feeling like he had walked through a fog of dirt that couldn't be easily wiped away, and while it may have been simply his imagination, Caspian couldn't be sure. He had the distinct impression that if the dirt on his skin had formed from honest toil rather than inactivity he wouldn't mind it so much. But, again, the air was heavy, and pressed on him at all times, touching him with grimy fingers.

Moving through the 'locker room' Caspian turned a blind eye to the men in varying states of undress, checking his own towel with quick fingers out of habit. White tile was cold and slippery, and the small group shuffled forward into the much larger tiled room with its metal protuberances. In moments the room would fill with steam and the sound of water hitting bodies and floors, to trickle down drains. This was one thing Caspian didn't mind at all about the hospital – this washing room was absolute divinity. If only he could enjoy it with less company. One of the veterans he passed gave him a strange look, and it was no wonder that he did so. Caspian's body was covered in scars, not the thick white and pink mats that some of the other men bore, and not small brief ones either. Spider webs and thin lines were all over his forearms and chest, with the occasional ragged tear sitting like a badly drawn seam on his side or at his hip. Several stars puckered on his torso, one to the left of his navel, one below his right collarbone and the third below that. Even his legs weren't spared, beneath the dusting of dark hair on his calves were similar marks, but the grouping was much sparser. It was his back that had the least of the strange damage, as though he had gone his whole life taking his hurts and trials head first. That didn't mean his back was unadorned, for there were very obvious whip marks that dug in deep and made ridges, but, for the most part, what was upon his back, was the thin pale, crisscrossing lines of being heavily switched. At least, in that, Caspian wasn't the only one with those - even if he had the most.

He thought that most of the scars came from bladed weapons, and the puckered stars from the heads of arrows and bolts. Possibly. Of course, Caspian couldn't be sure, but he could be sure of the fact that the others looked at him oddly for his markings. That they looked down on him for such things. Things he couldn't remember.

As though to remind him of his place, "Damn dirty Gypsy," followed by the sound of thick phlegm hitting the floor.

Most of the vets didn't speak to him like that. In fact, most of them feared him, but Caspian had yet to figure out the why of that. He assumed it was his Otherness. Then again there were the handful who felt that simply looking down their noses at him wasn't good enough. They had to rub his face in the fact that he didn't fit, and that they thought that that deserved their ire.

Caspian hadn't known what a Gypsy was, but had found out through reading. What little he had been able to piece together was that they were nomadic. And that they were tricksters, dishonest, thieves, and showmen of some sort. At least according to the literature he had found, something of that didn't set well with Caspian though. Letting the insult slide, because Caspian was fairly certain that he wasn't dishonest, a trickster of any sort, let alone a thief, and went about removing his towel and finding his place along the wall of showers.

"Say," one of the men moved to occupy the shower next to him, "how is it that a mud-skinned Gypsy got into the military?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but other than that, Caspian showed no sign of having heard the man. He knew they just wanted someone to be mad at, to blame for their infirmities and their inability to go integrate with normal society once more. As irritating as it was to be insulted, to Caspian, it was no real skin off his nose to let such meaningless words fall on his ears. With a flick of his wrist he turned the knobs and waited for the cascade to start, hiding his wince at the initial cool temperature as water burst from the showerhead. His stoicism only pushed his tormentors to further vitriol.

"Say, Howard," the one on his left said to one of the other patients, "didn't you say you thought you recognized him?" a thumb jerked towards Caspian.

"I think so," 'Howard' squinted, then nodded, "yeah, I sure did. But it's hard to remember. I think I saw him rubbing donkey shit all over himself so he could get darker."

Cruel laughter sounded from the two men, and the other veterans shifted around uncomfortably. No one was going to say anything, no one was going to draw any attention to themselves – and Caspian knew that if trouble started, that it would be he who suffered. And so he continued to ignore the Englishmen, rubbing his bar of soap between his palms vigorously, building up a heavy lather.

When Caspian didn't respond at all, other than to tip his head back, letting water flow over his face, and down his neck, the ribbing got worse.

"Now Bernard, I think you may've been wrong," there was a snort.

"Oh?"

Caspian ran his soapy hands over his chest, continuing to ignore for all appearances the words being said. He was above all of it. Scrubbing his stomach, distantly focusing on the stream of water down his chest to watch it swirl around his feet, Caspian hoped the comments would stop soon. If it went beyond words someone was going to get seriously hurt. And it wouldn't be him, at least not until the orderlies came and sedated him. Then Dr. Carter or Dr. Anderson may take some sort of drastic measure with him – even though he would have done nothing more than defend himself.

"I think he may be a dirt grubbing dago."

More laughter, "You're right! He sure does look to be one of those greasy dagos. Say, didn't they say he's from Spain? Aren't they all potato farmers?"

A hand came out, pushing Caspian's shoulder, and he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Howard, "Hey, how do you like potato farming?"

Biting the inside of his cheek, Caspian did his best to keep his cool, "As I am not English, I would not know."

Well, he couldn't be faulted for sniping back when provoked.

"What?" it was a snarl, "Why you – it's you dumb dagos and the Irish who're all potato farmers! We're Englishmen, and we don't farm for potatoes…!"

Blinking at them mildly, Caspian continued washing himself, scrubbing the bar of soap under his arm, "Oh, as you all look the same to me, I did not know. My most sincere apologies. As I am nothing but a humble dirt grubber, my intelligence is rather limited." Turning, Caspian splashed water over himself, rinsing off some, "And my powers of observation leave much to be desired. All of you are so short, I thought perhaps the English and the Irish were one and the same as they are all leprechauns…"

Silence crashed down in the shower, all eyes pinning Caspian. His heart rate increased, but Caspian continued being calm. Showing any signs of concern, fear or anger would only incite an actual fight. The choice of phrase he'd used hadn't been very wise, and he knew better than to bait the angry dissatisfied sort. But his wit had gotten the better of him, and now it wasn't only his two tormentors who looked at him with predatory eyes, but the rest of the Englishmen around him.

He kept staring at Howard and Bernard coldly, not acknowledging the danger he was in. In a fight, frankly he could probably take out about half of the men unless they all ganged up on him at once in a mob. Which would be how it would go down, that is unless he could cow Howard and Bernard quickly. They were the head of the beast, a beast he'd prodded with his racist words, and it didn't matter at all that he wasn't the one who started it. No one cared that it was Bernard and Howards bigotry that was the source of the dispute, and not he.

Moving so that he could put his soap aside, Caspian stood loose, arms at hanging at his sides ready to come up to defend himself. Howard's face had gone beet red, and Caspian wondered what he was in for – the veteran looked fairly normal, he didn't even have a scar on him that was visible. But that meant nothing, often the worst wounds were internal not external. Bernard had come forward to stand beside Howard, and he had gone pasty in his anger, burn scars covering one side of his torso. Both men were relatively hale and hearty, but they held themselves poorly.

"You think you're funny, don't you dago?"

"As funny as you think yourself," neutral.

"A regular comedian, aren't you?"

He didn't deign to answer. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't be turned against him. Counting under his breath, Caspian waited, the tension had to break, and break soon – one way or another.

"Hey guys – you better leave me some hot water or I'll be steamed," Charley came in at what had to be the most opportune moment ever.

Never so relieved in his life for a man who was theoretically his rival, Caspian thought he could kiss the Welshman. Charley fancied himself Nurse Fisher's favorite, and as a rule of thumb ignored Caspian as though he bore some plague. Generally, Caspian was fine with this, who was he to care if someone thought Susan favored them over him? In truth he didn't care who she fancied the most, in the end her job was her job and she cared for everyone equally and appropriately. And if he kept telling himself that he may actually believe that he wasn't her favorite. Possibly. After a few centuries of repetition. But, nonetheless, Charley's presence broke the tension and the other men went back to their ablutions. That left Bernard and Howard still trying to stare him down. Quirking a brow at them, Caspian shrugged as though to say he were sorry for the interruption.

XXX

His coat was heavy and he liked it that way, for the frost in the air worked its way past the light day jacket of his uniform like it wasn't even there. Brushing off snow that clung to his handrail, Caspian made a place for himself, then slipped onto it, laying down the length. Off to the side Susan watched him, shaking her head.

"It's too cold out for you to do that, you really should go inside," hugging herself.

Tucking an arm under his head to pillow it, Caspian glanced over at her, "If you are chilled, you should go inside. As for me, I am fine, my coat protects me well enough."

"You know what?" He assumed it was a rhetorical question so he only continued looking at her intently, waiting, "I have no clue where you get those things from. Most of the others have family that sends them things in the mail or leave packages for them at the front desk at most. Your things just… show up in the mailroom with no sender listed. Just your name. It positively baffles me and I think it drives poor Mr. Pembles batty trying to figure out where it all comes from."

"It would be nice if whoever sends me these possessions would send me some more texts to read," digging in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, "as I have exhausted the library of things that interest me for the most part. Perhaps I shall endeavor to learn another language? Spanish may be a good start."

She came closer to him, standing at his side so they were perpendicular, "Maybe it'll jog your memory if you do?"

"The thought had occurred to me, yes," nodding.

Caspian felt himself relax when Susan was near enough that she just barely touched the side of his arm, comforted by her presence. Cigarette in hand, Caspian clumsily lit it in his horizontal position, but managed. Taking a long drag and then moving his hand down so it would rest over his stomach he jerked in surprise when the stick of tobacco was plucked from his fingers. Somehow he contained his shock at seeing Nurse Fisher hold the cigarette to her lips and draw the smoke into her lungs deeply as she gave him a mischievous wink.

Blowing a jet of the grayish purple smoke from her lips, "It's been forever it seems."

"Forever? At your age, forever would be a week or two, would it not?"

To that she laughed, and he retrieved his smoke from her grasp, "You sound positively ancient when you talk like that. How old are you supposed to be – twenty or fifty?"

Nostrils flaring as his brow crinkled in thought, "I am twenty-five I am told."

They were quiet after that, and Caspian did wonder how old he may truly be. Some things seemed out of place, at times he thought there was no way it was possible he was a mere score and five years. He felt far older than that most days, as though the weight of decades sat upon his shoulders, dragging him down and lifting him up. Somewhere, somewhen Caspian remembered a saying, and the thought of it made him chuckle.

"What is it?" Susan gave him a gentle poke. "Are you having a laugh at my expense?"

Lips twitching, "Nay, more at mine than anything else."

"The please, share the mirth rather than keep it all to yourself."

"The young act so old, while the old act so young." Shrugging, "It loses something in translation I think."

Susan finished his cigarette for him before flicking it out into the snow covered bushes, "It seems that way. I don't get it, so that must be the case."

Shifting, Caspian tried to put the idea into words, "The responsible youth looks to his elders, and asks why they don't act with more decorum. While the elders look to the youth and say that life is short and that it must be made fun of."

That elicited a giggle, "It's short? So make fun of it? I think I like that…"

"Yes," smiling in turn, Caspian swung his legs around on the ledge, putting his back to Susan, "I thought you might."

Arms came around his midsection, surprising him again with the familiarity of the gesture, "But I think I understand. The elders know that too much seriousness makes life not worthwhile, even though they're fully capable of it, while the youth has yet to realize what life is all about." Her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and Caspian lay his hands over the small pale ones that were bunched in his coat, "It's like learning to stop and smell the roses, to take a beautiful precious moment and value it. There aren't many of them in life, so enjoy them rather than waste them with being constantly productive."

"You have the right of it I believe," giving Susan's cold hands a squeeze, trying to warm them up.

Quiet descended on them as it often did, and as it often was, it was of a peaceful sort. But Caspian didn't want the young nurse to catch a chill, she wasn't dressed for the weather. With a heartfelt sigh, Caspian leaned back into her arms, not wanting to cut the moment short. Yet he knew he must.

As though she knew what he was going to do, Susan stopped him, "Stop and smell the roses Caspian, just a moment longer," whispering, the warmth of her breath seeping through the layers of his coat.

"They do smell ever so sweet," voice low, Caspian stared down at the pink knuckles of her hands, the stark contrast of his dark skin next to hers. The flash of heat he felt go through his body wasn't entirely bashful embarrassment, but mostly the low thrum of male desire – he wanted to envision what the rest of her pale flesh would look like mixed with his. "But like poppies," forcing the words out, and his eyes closed, "the scent can be intoxicatingly dangerous to the unwary."

"And must you always be so wary?" she was shivering, and Caspian knew they'd been in the cold too long for her.

He discarded the idea that the trembling could be for any other reason, "Life is also a fine balance, not just a series of moments Susie."

"What happened to there only being the here and now?" coming out somewhere between hurt and accusatory.

Wincing, Caspian hung his head, "I only meant…" trailing off, he knew when he was beat. There was nothing he could say to salvage the moment, but there was plenty he could do. If he could only forget his honour for a second. Turning with some difficulty, Caspian reached for Susan even as she backed away, "Susie, I cannot explain sufficiently, words fail at times."

"You're good with words Caspian," it was curt, and she wasn't looking at him.

Yes, he was most certainly good with words. Using them for weapons, for diplomacy, manipulation. Words were just as powerful as any physical tool if used properly. And Caspian knew how good he was with them. So did Susan, she'd received the gentle cuts and the firm support.

"Susan," slipping up, desperate, forgetting himself, "please, come here," holding his hands out to her.

"I told you, I don't like that name," as close to snapping at him as she ever had been.

Before he could say anything more, Susan spun on her heel, and stalked off.

XXXX

"I say – Susan Pevensie?" it was obnoxious. "Susan Pevensie? Oh come now old girl," the voice was so heavy handed, so over the top upper class, that Caspian cringed, "it's me!"

"Keith?" surprise and shock registered in Caspian's ears, Susan's voice sharp edged.

Without thought Caspian picked up his pace, turning the corner swiftly. In the hall there was Nurse Fisher, no – Susan Pevensie – and a young man in a tweed jacket, khaki shorts and knee socks of some sort. All in all he looked imbecilic to Caspian, but the height of genteel leisure to others he supposed. It was most disturbing, the bolt of emotion Caspian felt as he watched the man 'Keith' grasp Susan's elbow as though it were natural for him to lay hands upon her.

The two didn't appear to notice Caspian until the last moment, when his tall frame cast a shadow upon them, his tone slicing through the air, "Is this person bothering you?"

Caspian didn't say her name, one way or another, deciding to protect Susan. If she didn't go by 'Susan Pevensie' in the hospital, then the man before him could be a threat to her anonymity. That wouldn't do at all. Even if Caspian was glad to know her true name, some hidden inner bonds loosened at putting real name to Susan's face.

"And who might you be?" Keith had to tilt his head back to look into Caspian's face, gray eyes bloodshot around the edges, small blood vessels having broken throughout his skin giving his face a permanently flushed look.

Answering for Caspian, "A good friend." Susan's expression was beseeching, begging for no confrontation, "Keith Avery, I'd like you to meet Ten. And Ten, this is Keith." Clarifying, "He and my brother Peter went to school together."

Holding out his left hand to be shaken, "A pleasure Mister Avery," which forced Keith to relinquish Susan's elbow if he didn't wish to make a scene as he had been maintaining a firm hold on her with his own left hand.

"As well Mister… Ten?" the hand clasp was forceful, the shorter man trying to crush Caspian's fingers in his grip. "That's a strange name."

"Most English tongues cannot seem to pronounce the proper version of his name," Susan slid in glibly, the lie sounding at least somewhat plausible.

If one didn't take into account the multitude of Welsh, Irish and Scot names that abounded amongst the English populace. Caspian knew the maps relatively well, but he had tripped over so many names that at some point he'd given up. That should be his next project - learning the local tongues.

"Ah," still squeezing Caspian's hand, "I say that must be one strange name. Then again, I do believe I detect an accent old boy. Where are you from?"

"Spain," answering by rote, not giving into the urge to truly crush Keith Avery's hand with his. There wasn't enough strength in the man's hand to do Caspian any damage, because Caspian had a habit of squeezing things until they shattered, broke, or splattered. It was a strange thing that he'd done for quite some time, recalling that having strong wrists and forearms was part of his nature. "After having spent a time in Argentina."

"Oh?" Caspian only just saw Susan's wince, and didn't understand it or Keith's interest. Not until, "I've spent some time in Spain. Quite a bit of it actually. My Spanish may be a bit rusty, but let me just try this, I'm sure it'd be nice for you to hear a bit of your own language. _Es un mentiroso y una falsificación._ ” [You are a liar and a fake.]

"Keith took a trip for the running of the bulls in Pamplona," Susan stepped in, preventing Caspian from answering, and covering up the fact that he hadn't had a clue what Keith had said. Though the gleam in his eye was clue enough for Caspian. "Isn't that right Keith?"

"Yes it is," lips twitching. "I think this year you should come with me Susan, this place…isn't your style," giving Caspian a once over, then grimacing at Susan's uniform, "It's such a step down for you here."

Not liking the proprietary and predatory way Keith kept looking at Susan, "And Pamplona would not be? England is vastly superior to Spain since the civil war," flying by the seat of his pants, Caspian lied through his teeth, spitting out the propaganda he'd read in the newspapers. "With Franco in power, why in God's name would you want to go there? No, Susan," glancing at her before glowering at Keith, "Spain is no place for a lady of your stature. It is now only filled with those who will seek to take advantage of you at every turn."

"No wonder you're here rather than there," Keith nodded sagely, as though he actually agreed, seeming taken aback by Caspian's wave of information, "you make it sound like such a nasty place."

"Keith," preventing a full on confrontation, "I do have work to do, really I do."

Snorting derisively, "Truly Susan? Have you fallen so low? Come now, why don't you call upon me sometime, we can reminisce about old times. We're friends after all…" Shaking his head, "You needn't lower yourself so much as to work amongst…"

"Veterans?" smiling, though it wasn't a smile that was pleasant, Caspian said nonchalantly. "And where did you serve Mister Avery?"

"I could ask the same of you," drawing himself up. "But no. What I was going to say, was working with nothing but common soldiers. I served King and Country happily."

"Enough, please," desperate, and Caspian felt himself bowing to Susan's distress, "boys, I have things I must attend to. Keith, I'll talk to you later at some point. Ten, were you sent to get me?"

Picking up on the excuse readily, "Yes, my apologies, I am remiss. Dr. Anderson wished to speak with you." Inclining his head to Keith perfunctorily, "Good afternoon Mister Avery, it was a pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well," ground out between teeth, and Caspian had a feeling that he'd be seeing Keith Avery again at some point.

All but hauling Caspian off, Susan kept her arm threaded through his, her pace just short of frantic. He didn't say a word, just kept up, waiting her out. She'd tell him what she would when she decided to, and prompting would only agitate Susan further. But now he had more questions than he had before. At least when it came to Susan he had a source for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was all that I could salvage, the story never was completed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've thought about my time in the Suspian fandom off and on for years. Generally with a bit of bitter reminiscence and a dose of aggravation with myself. Out of left field, chapter six came to exist over the course of about four or five days. Well, more like it bonked me and said 'reread all this stuff and look how miserable it is that you didn't do anything with it'. I'm known to torture myself in this way every now and again (personal failing probably.) 
> 
> Discussed issue with a friend, and slept on it. Then chapter six was written in a tooth pulling sort of unpleasant agony where I managed to crank it out. Somehow. I do tend to cycle through my stories, but usually not fandoms too much. And if something is positively ancient (read: prior to 2010) chances are, I won't ever do more with it. **However** as uncomfortable as it was to come up with a sufficient idea for a chapter with a correct word count (4,000-6,500 as per this story's style, others it's more...flexible and far higher) I managed. And am going to see how much I can grind from my brainpan before it gives out on me.
> 
> So. No promises beyond ch 6 and ch 7. If I go farther, huzzah, if I don't, my sincere apologies and I hope it's not another five to six years before there's more.

XXX  
Chapter Six  
XXX

Susan avoided him for days. Caspian quietly waited her out, in the interim he had put in a request for learning materials. He would start with Latin and Spanish, to compare and contrast. Undertaking Spanish may be for the sake of survival, for if he was to bear up under scrutiny, he would have to be able to back things up at least a little. Evenings, as usual, she would come by, his pills in hand, quietly pocketed for later discarding, and she would stand there for a few minutes so it would all ‘look’ the same from the outside as it always had. He would continue to wait her out, wait until she gave some indication that she wished to talk about being Susan Pevensie and not Susie Fisher. 

It went like that for weeks. 

Time was that fuzzy and useless repeating creature, and Caspian submitted to his continued visits with both doctors Carter and Anderson, biding his time. He found himself fabricating ‘progress’ that revolved around the name of Esther. A name, a possible wife, and Dr. Anderson was ever so _pleased_ about Caspian throwing himself into Spanish and Latin. He suspected that by having taken those interests, forcing himself to fake such feelings of fascination with a language that may have rolled off his tongue in a strangely familiar fashion, in a way that almost sounded correct, may be purchasing him some leeway. However, Anderson’s continued pressing upon Caspian about animal instincts, urges, and such, was increasingly disturbing. Of what import was a man’s sexual activities?

His monthly electroshock session was the same as others, figments, intense ones, ghosts of meaning there and forgotten within moments of wakening. Caspian would go mad if it weren’t for Susan’s presence after those, however. It was in those moments that things had almost returned to normal. Whatever passed for normal in this mad and washed out place.

Weakly his hand reached for hers, the leather bindings keeping him from being able to lift his hand far from the gurney, “Please,” Caspian’s voice was dry and cracked to his ears, pathetic and needy. Susan didn’t seem to mind, her fingers slipping to curl into his hand, squeezing, and he begged, “Do not forsake me, Susan.”

The tiny notepad she kept out, waiting after his sessions, was tucked into her lap as she scooted the heavy chair closer as she kept her observational vigil, and the nurse made no reprimand over the misuse of her name. “I’m here, Caspian.”

Body throbbing, his eyes closed, Caspian sighed. He didn’t think he could take much more. The patience of the will and mind would outlast his body if things kept on as they were.

Thumb stroking Susan’s index finger, testing the feel of the bone in its veil of flesh, tears pricked his closed lids, “I do not wish to die in this shadowed wasteland. Trapped, poked, prodded, tested and measured against some unit that I do not know or understand.”

“Where would you be? What would you like to do?” Susan asked him, it was a question Dr. Anderson voiced frequently, and Caspian often deflected. But her voice was so gentle, trying to draw him to something hopeful, he couldn’t resist. “If you closed your eyes and were to open them, and magically be anywhere else, right this instant, what would it be like?”

Because it was her asking, Caspian would answer. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, imagining, longing for something else other than antiseptic burning. Dim light, like from a lantern, wooden walls and stalls, the scent of hay and horse... 

Taking a shuddering breath, “Stables, readying for a late evening ride, near sunset. That is where I would wish to be...” Her other hand came to hold his, and Caspian’s fingers spasmodically threaded and wove together, desperate for that simple, human contact. “And you there, in an emerald brocade riding dress, checking over the saddlebags for a picnic or something similar, just an evening ride and a,” a tear slid free in longing, “a chance at something pleasantly normal.”

The buckles of one restraint clanked and came loose, freeing his hand entirely, and Susan moved to kiss his knuckles as her elbows came to rest on the hospital bed, smiling sweetly, “Only you could make something so princely sound so mundane. But a picnic would be lovely. Oh, if only I still had my garden, then we could have fresh herbs and perhaps cucumber sandwiches, or maybe scones with clotted cream. I’d save up my ration cards, then maybe some nice cured ham or even a bit of mutton with rose water marmelade.”

A bit of humour found him, “If it was a haunch of ham, salt and air cured for months and sliced thin, I would kill for a bit of that and tart, aged cheese with melon on the side. And a little basket of blackberries to share.”

Susan laughed softly, lightly, the entire motion scrunching up her face, “Oh but, sir, that may ruin that fine brocade you’re on about! I don’t think I’ve even touched the stuff except - oh, no wait, Mum had a coat that was in the attic... A deep and far too bold mauveine. Cut down from one of Grandmother’s dresses I think. Times were different then and she was a seamstress.”

Fingers twitching to stroke her chin as she held his hand in hers and rested the dimpled round of it on his knuckles, Caspian released a quiet sigh rather than the admission that would slip free if he but gave it permission. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want any more of the therapies that were tortures, horrors that would destroy him as they sought to bring to the foreground a life that was over, gone, done and lost. Caspian wanted what was before him, a chance - no, there wasn’t any chance. Imprisoned as he was, no skills and no prospects, he had nothing to offer Susan, though she was one of the only real lights in the ugly and bleak world that he had awakened in with no memory of who he was, where he was from. She was real, she was Other - but while he was also Other, and also real, or at least he supposed he was, that wasn’t enough to give or share with another, no matter how he wished it was. Hunger and longing blended with the abiding shame that he could give her nothing that would provide what she gave to him.

Some of that must of shown in his expression, and the light in the nurse’s dancing blue eyes, dimmed, darkened, deepened, her visage turning away from sweetness to empathy. “Oh Caspian...it’s alright,” Susan’s words unmanning him completely, the momentary joy of an imagined bit of freedom had fled, supplanted by his tears.

Breaking down, bound and strapped to the gurney, cruel leather over stinging starched sheets and a patient’s unkind pajamas, Caspian sobbed. Not even allowed the dignity of rolling to one side or another, he was worn down, and nothing would ever be right. Nothing would be ‘alright’, the hope and faith in his breast shaking and trembling as he cried like a babe in that hell. Not even Susan’s angelic nature could do more than show him the light that couldn’t be shared to someone like him.

XXX

Susan stopped avoiding him. That was good, but Caspian felt adrift again. Disconsolate. He still studied his Latin and Spanish, read any history book he could find - even if the contents of them seemed truly odd - and generally did his usual of keeping to himself. Seymour had been moved to a different ward, and he wasn’t allowed to check on his friend, which further removed Caspian from day to day affairs. Susan did her best to counter that, he knew it, saw it, felt it in her hand tucking itself into the crook of his elbow when he went for his evening stroll through the sprawling hospital. 

The midwinter holiday went on about him, about them, men receiving small gifts in their mail, some with families even came to fetch them for a day or two. Others at least received word, lining up in parts of the ward to speak on the strange handheld devices. Caspian took little note of it, uninterested. With everyone so distracted by the increased air of suppressed revelry, Caspian was free to be as silent as he chose. 

Except Susan didn’t leave him to it. Together, they would stand quietly on the patio, sometimes she would pluck one of his cigarettes from his grasp, lean against him and hug her red woolen cardigan to herself as she puffed. And he would eventually open his coat or take off his scarf, so it could be shared with her. 

Going to his customary spot, his steps halted as the patio was occupied. 

In a surprisingly brilliant purple coat that went to her knees, Susan was there, her hair down and there was some shimmery lavender colour over her full lips, and long slashes of dark black across the top of her lids that came to broad sweeping curves at the corners of her large blue eyes, making them enormous. Waving, barreled ringlets of robustly brown, shot with a bit of sun lightened blonde here and there, fell around her shoulders and face, several segments at the top pinned from her round forehead. The very look of her stole away Caspian’s breath, she was colour, she was real and solid, and there was no shadow to dull her visage at all, nothing to wash her out and rob her of any substance at all. 

“Well, just don’t stand there Caspian!” She gestured him over, fidgeting, but smiling, “Come here, the cider will get cold if we leave it too long!”

Taking a deep breath, Caspian forced himself forward, the door to the patio closing behind him. “Cider?”

“I managed to get a hold of some and someone owed me a favour in the cafeteria kitchen, so I was able to make us a little holiday dinner,” the nurse looked ready to burst with excitement, but all Caspian could think of was how much he wanted nothing more than to hold her, smell her hair, kiss her, bask in that light.

Not sparing more than a glance at the thermos sitting in the basket atop the wide rail, Caspian’s gaze was pulled back to her, “The colour is far from too bold on you. It is perfect,” fingers reaching out to first touch her cheek, then the sleeve of the arabesque brocade coat, “you are perfect. More perfect than usual.”

“Don’t let Nurse Kerry hear you say that,” she teased, stepping closer. “She’ll do something awful and then I’d be put out, because I’d have to ruin her perfect red lipstick and get into trouble.”

Making a face as he unbuttoned his coat enough so that she could worm closer if that was her desire, “Never, I do not wish to think of a harriden, when you are all I need, no other woman will ever claim the place you hold.” After the words were out, he froze, both of them did, the ramifications of it dawning, and Caspian readied himself to beat a hasty retreat. “Susan, I -” giving himself a shake, “Nurse Fisher, let me -”

“Hush,” arm slipping around his waist, her cheek came to rest on his chest. “Hush and just hold me, then we’ll have some cider, maybe I’ll even break out the bit of whiskey I’ve been saving for nasty dreary mornings, we’ll have our potatoes with toppings - I’ve even managed a bit of bacon and cheese, you know - get tipsy perhaps, and then you’ll kiss me, maybe we’ll even walk in the garden, count stars. And then I’ll walk you to your room, and I’ll go clean up for my shift. In the afternoon when I’m off for the day, I’ll finally go to my drafty, lonely little boarding house, have a lie down and think of the first nice holiday since my family died. Let me be just Susan for tonight, you’ll be my family, and I’ll be yours, so we’re not alone.”

Enfolding her in his arms, “I would rather not be in my cups at all when I kissed you, as it is a memory I wish to have indelibly marked in my mind so nothing could ever pry it out. And I would rather not take advantage of a woman who may not be aware of what she is doing. For I may beg more than a single kiss if we were too much unaware of ourselves.” 

He didn’t press upon her statement about her family. She wanted something bright and happy, a moment of shared joy, and Caspian wished nothing more than to lift her up to touch the stars if only it would make her smile at him again. Her skin smelled different than usual, the touch of powdery honeysuckle was replaced by daubs of some flower water or other gently scented essence, something gentle and good, readily available. As Caspian held her, he wished the moment would end, depositing him back to dreary reality.

Finally they broke apart, and Susan patted the three, very thick, woolen blankets she had brought with her, “To keep our bums from getting cold upon the concrete.”

Caspian leaned out over the rail, hitching up on it backwards, and leaned further. “Do you think there will be -”

“They wouldn’t run on Christmas Eve, it’s not wartime anymore,” the weight of her hand on his knee, reassuring him. 

Hopping back down, he scooped up both blankets and basket, presenting his arm, “Then perhaps we should go around to the doors, so that I can be very daring and risk the little park bench with its table?”

Both of her hands found their spot in the crook of his arm, “You could always just help me balance and pretend to not look at my knickers.”

“I could, but I would never wish you to catch an icy draft to places that should remain warm,” a chuckle at his own expense, and a rather daring statement, but it made her laugh, which was a lovely sound.

Even through two, double folded blankets, the concrete was cold if Susan’s shivering was much to go by, and Caspian removed his own outer coat, draping and tucking it about her while they shared the third blanket. Huddled and sipping the amazingly warm drink from the thermos, Caspian listened to her tell of parties she had been to. Light, airy affairs, music, flowing drink, smoke heavy in the air. Dancing and sometimes the smoke was from something banned and considered rather illegal - hashish - made from a plant that was related to hemp. Or so she said. Caspian actually knew what that was, and thought it strange that a potent medicinal was banned, but, like many things of England and Great Britain, he viewed it as alien and strange, yet was left little recourse but to accept it. 

Their baked and roasted potatoes were good, filling, little packs of vegetable bits and gravy or margarine (a strange product that tasted like it wanted to be butter but wasn’t that he had grown accustomed to), and even the mentioned bacon. Beans were on hers, and they traded bites as how he assembled his was different from hers. Several large potatoes later and shared between them, the last was saved, because he had finally nerved up to ask what the rationing was about. For him, food was available at the hospital, not particularly good tasting food, granted, but readily available, and most importantly, free. Besides, he wasn’t hungry, had eaten plenty, and was more interested in just simply listening to Susan as she snuggled up against him.

From some inside pocket a flask was withdrawn, given a shake, the metal kept warm from proximity to her, “Are you quite sure you don’t want a few nips for nerves?”

“My nerves are steady, I assure you,” as he wrapped his hand around hers holding the flask. “You keep mine far steadier and muster my courage without the need of drink. Even if I shall be bold and rude to voice the fact that the idea of pressing lips to something that had been so close to you would likely fulfill most any fantasy a man may daydream of.”

The flush that burst across her cheeks was worrying and he thought he had overstepped one time too many, or at least much too far. “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you, Caspian,” she finally said, her free hand pressed to the center of his chest. “You’re nothing like anyone I’ve ever known, and can say positively the most unseemly things in such a way it’s difficult to take offense and is even, somehow...” Her cheeks darkened, the sapphire of her eyes revealed in the garden’s lamplight gone to a deeper midnight, sparkling, “Somehow thrilling for all the impropriety. You make a girl say silly things she’d never say to another.”

“Never have the words ‘silly’, ‘improper’, let alone ‘unseemly’ ever crossed my mind as adjectives for you,” as he finally took the flask for a sip. It was coarse, poorly made, and bitterly burned down his gullet, but it was strong, he would give it that. Probably better in a cup of tea. Repressing the urge to ‘gah’ after he was done with the swig, Caspian continued. “Rather the words ‘kind’, ‘gentle’, ‘intelligent’, ‘incomparable’, and a few others including ‘lovely’, come to mind. Light, a source of joy, and the only thing true and good. Those are the words and thoughts I associate with you.” They were quiet again, trading the flask, not that they took many sips, more often, it was held in hand for a long while, before a sip was had. She was half in his lap, tucked over his leg as he had made it into another barrier between her and the cold, his face almost in her hair. “For all your talk about your parties, you did not sound like you were very happy, Susan,” holding her close. 

She shifted, uncomfortable, but her hands wove together with his over her stomach, “Keith was from that time. Him...and...and...” She huffed out a very sad sigh, “I was very different. Like...like Nurse Kerry, I was...”

“I sincerely doubt you were anything like Nurse Kerry,” Caspian squeezed her closer. “Sharing pleasurable pursuits with another person does not make you, or anyone, anything but human, seeking warmth, connection, and in some cases more, some cases, just fun. There is nothing in that, that could make a person be like Nurse Kerry. She is spiteful, and, to be uncommonly, rudely, utterly crude in my bluntness, and if it gives offense, please blame it upon drink loosened tongue - her number of men she has shared her body with, has absolutely nothing to do with why her personality is so deplorable. _You_ are nothing like that. It takes a broken soul filled with hate to be that way, not numbers of partners.” Mouth close to her ear, “We have all had our pasts, some good, some leaving us scarred, but in the end, you will always be yourself, Susan, and that is a woman of deep and abiding kindness, no matter what mask may have been worn, what name you have been called. I know that, just as surely as you say you know I have managed to retain my own self, no matter what is wrong with my mind.”

Susan twisted enough to look at him, searchingly. “You don’t care, do you?” He couldn’t help but raise a brow, because he did care about many things, but she amended her statement before he could counter her, “I mean, you don’t judge me for having been...having been of loose character. It doesn’t make you see me any differently at all, does it?”

Rubbing his cheek atop his shoulder briefly, he picked over his words. “And I suppose I shall be even more blunt. People need people, we are made that way. Our bodies are meant to give and share pleasure or joy. Between lovers, that is lovemaking. Between dalliances, it is sex. In the end, it does not change who those people are, it does not make them different from how they were before bodies came into contact. So why should I judge that you have lain with someone? Would you judge me for not being a virgin? So why should I judge you for the same?”

“Men don’t want a wife who’s had more experience than him,” she pointed out in a way that made it sound like she believed that she had had more than him. And it was perfectly possible she had, for he didn’t have the memories to say one way or the other. If the woman named Esther that he couldn’t remember had been his only partner, Susan certainly no doubt had far more partners and experience than himself - and so what? 

Making a face as he mulled it over, he came up with a problem. “Honestly? I would not want a wife who had no idea what to do. She would lay there like a board, probably worried over something or other, rather than how it could be best for both, and sometimes a man wishes to lay back and enjoy, let her take the reins, and if she has no idea what...” Caspian paused after trailing off as he realized she was staring at him, mouth agape, and looking completely mortified. Then he realized just how - probably deemed rather disgustingly frank - he had been. Clearing his throat, “Ah...I just mean to say, that the inexperienced tend to not do very good jobs at things in life, and to gain experience, one must practice if they wish to be any...good at it... There is this saying, and I cannot for the, oh flaming, I cannot remember where I heard it. It is just a saying amongst men being honest in their cups!”

She looked a bit like a landed fish, mouth opening and closing, and he was glad for his dark complexion, because he was probably pinker than her lips were under normal conditions otherwise. Squeaking the question, “I’ll no doubt regret this, but what’s the saying?”

“That heaven is two fire breathing,” he paused, “for some reason I think the word has different connotations where I come from, but, two fire breathing wenches who know their way around a man and each other,” mumbling. 

A hand clapped over her mouth, horrified and scandalized, but he thought he may detect a hint of a smile being covered up, no matter that it didn’t occur to him that the covering of the smile meant she was likely ashamed for having thought it funny at all, “ _Caspian_!”

Defensively, embarrassed, but also trying ever so hard not to fall over laughing, “It is a saying! I did not say that it was one I entirely subscribed to. Two women is one too many at a time, thank you, I am mortal, I have limits.” Earnestly, “I only want one woman, I have but one heart, and it is very much filled and that is all I need or want. There is barely enough of me worth sharing, why would I wish to divide what little bit of me there is by being greedy? It would not be fair to the poor woman who should choose to have anything to do with me at all.”

“Goodness, I’m entirely too sober,” Susan pulled the flask from where it had been tucked back in and he was amazed at how easily she chugged at the contents for a good long pull. “Oh that’s foul, what I wouldn’t give for some decent stuff from under the counter...”

“On my worst day, I could probably make better,” Caspian agreed. 

“You know how to brew?” the thermos of cider was checked, mostly empty by now, and definitely cold, the cannister halting part way to her mouth.

Caspian blinked a few times, thinking it over. “Yes. Beer, mead, wine, some spirits, yes,” recipes popped into his head, information, things he would need, a long list of things to aid clear fermentation... “Cheese, only the principles of it. Dyeing with the use of vegetable, plant, or animal matter, with or without earthen or metal based addatives, the growth and application of medicines, stabilizing and caring for the injured, both catastrophically and minor. Animal birthing, and once...” He halted, blinking a few more times, the memory fleeing before he could grasp it. “I think I have delivered a baby or two. Maybe three. Care of goats, sheep - shearing too, horses, chickens, and other regular farm animals. Slaughter and health...ah...gardening. Carpentry, give me a hammer, saw, some nails and wood, and I can build most things with a bit of trial and error...I think. No good at spinning or weaving, do not mind carding wool in winter...” The list was muttered out in a long, unthinking string. “Blacksmithing, know what to do with ingots for horseshoes, armour repairs, weapon repairs... Can design and build siege weapons... Umn, repair sailing vessels, and am not too bad at mending my own clothes. I like fishing and hunting...I think.”

The thermos made a soft sound as it was set back on the table, Susan shifting within the tent of blanket and his coat, both her hands coming to take hold of his face, “Caspian? Are you...is that a memory?”

Gaze refocusing on her, “I - I do not know. Ah, I only know what I need to do those things, and my hands seem to recall, as does my nose, just...information. The particulars are not present.”

Maybe something else would have been said. Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much to drink. Maybe he shouldn’t have been holding her so close. But the sticky softness of Susan’s mouth was there, whatever the lip cosmetic she had been wearing mostly rubbed and faded away by the time they were kissing. Caspian could still feel a bit of the tacky substance and he didn’t care, the idea of it being on him, marking him, sending a bolt of need through his body. Who kissed who first, Caspian wished he could find a moment of regret for that, it was lost, unknowable, but for the taste of her mouth as his own lips parted, searching for more. The hungry groan as slick tongue brushed and stroked against his, broke free, and Susan was in his lap, it was so easy to pull her closer, to lay himself back along the bench, to feel her weight along him. Fingers were in his hair, her soft body pressed tight, and Caspian found that there was no resolve left in his veins, his pulse only beat to her touch, to the sensation of her filling his world and every sense. 

A roll of hips had him growling, hands roving over her waist and back, but she whimpered over him, breaking free, her words barely convincing, “Not out here.”

“Not out here,” he echoed, agreeing, voice rough as he waited for her to give him the breathing space he needed to keep from going for another kiss.

Signs of their meal were gathered up, Caspian yanking and tugging his coat on, wishing to leave it wrapped around Susan as protection from the cold. But they settled themselves some with quick checks, just no touching, otherwise they may both go mad. At least he would, feared he would. Each step back to his room, Caspian fought, struggled with himself. If he thought it would do much good, he would drop to his knees and pray to whomever would listen, that what they both wished to do would cause no harm to others, no dishonour to a woman who may or may not have been real, that he couldn’t remember at all. That Susan forgive him his failings and amnesia, and wouldn’t care that he was so incomplete. For however brief or lengthy a time, so long as she would take him as he was, he would do anything she asked of him, for as much time as she would allow, he would beg to remain in her light. He also pleaded with himself for strength, because Caspian didn’t want to take what she was offering while they were both tipsy, not quite in their right minds. It must have been a very long time since he last consumed fermented drink for his control to be so shattered, yet perhaps it was just a convenient excuse. 

The door to his small room opened and closed, clicking, and he stared for long moments at the lock. He wasn’t even supposed to have that little bit of metal, yet, because of how much he unsettled the other patients, and due to a few, insignificant to him, but distressing according to his doctors, scuffles and attacks, Caspian had been given the modified little lock. It wasn’t much of one, just enough to slow down or deter an intruder...or keep the nosey from entering while he was in flagrante with Susan. A deep breath and his fingers twisted the lock, something to keep the outside, out, and the inside, in.

A strange hissing, clicking screech, and Caspian jolted, “What?” turning around to see Susan, the coat gone, and a soft blue dress under it as she bent over a strange box sitting atop his nightstand. 

“Hmn?” Susan sounded distracted, unconcerned, touching and fiddling with a protruding knob as the crackling, hissing, slurring whisper came. 

Then voices, and Caspian pressed his back to the door, staring around his room, strains of music. It didn’t come from outside, it came from _inside_ his room, “Susan - can...can you hear that?”

Finally, flushed with drink and arousal, she looked at him from over her rounded shoulder, the capped sleeves of her dress not hiding how the pink of her mood and state traveled down her arms. “Hear what?”

“That -” waving a hand frantically as the song got louder, “- music? Words? Am I going mad?” Shaking, sweating, Caspian’s gaze skipped over the familiar, washed out confines of his room, but couldn’t see anything or anyone else. A desperate edge crept and cut through his vocal cords, “Susan? Am I going mad?”

Suddenly the noise stopped, Susan touching the box, “It’s just the radio, Caspian.”

“Radio? Like...like calling in troops, saying airstrikes come?” the word wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, he had heard it spoken of, described as a wartime thing, some device that could cause death to fall from the sky upon the defenseless.

“Well, radios can do that, but, it’s just the evening shows,” Susan came to him, her hands smoothing over his forehead. Like other times, her touch renewed and broke him simultaneously, and he crumpled to his knees, arms going around her waist, as he buried his face in her belly. “Caspian, you’re not going mad, it’s just the radio to...to cover any noise,” fingers in his hair, and he could only nod, gasping in great lungfuls of air. The explanation helped, “I brought it from my place, sometimes there’s amusing shows on, or music, things that talk about outside...”

Caspian nodded again, his heated blood having chilled with the fear and worry, robbing the urgency that had fired his body and mind. “Susan...I...I do not think I can...”

There was strength in her hands as they tugged and tipped his head back so she could look at him, “It’s alright, you don’t have to.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Functionally_ the plot is done. Functionally. Everything/anything after, is gravy and fluffy as hell. And that's fine.

XXX  
Seven  
XXX

Stolen kisses. Soft touch of full lips to his, fingers tangling. Moments on a patio that he forced himself to leave as frequently as he could bare it without falling and crouching and hiding like a terrified child. That was the focus of Caspian’s days. Susan’s cool hands sliding into his jacket, under his coat, so that they touched the pressed cotton of his uniform’s shirt. The high colour that would touch her cheeks after those moments they thieved from fate and time allowed him the strength to forget. To forget that he may have wanted to remember, because he didn’t. There wouldn’t be enough he could remember that would solve anything, and Caspian was grateful that he could forget, his faith in that was restored as he accepted his lot. Riskier moments in the night, he would awaken to Susan slipping into his room, the two of them pressed close on his narrow bed after she had made her evening rounds. He would catch a light doze, then come awake as she carefully unpinned her hat in the dark. They would hold one another, he beneath his covers, she above them, whisper and talk, kiss and after a bit, she would leave, having replaced her absurd little hat. 

During the day, they maintained their outward appearance of friendship to the best of their abilities. Most days it was alright. Some days weren’t. Like when he heard Dr. Carter making overtures to Susan, the way his voice sounded so casual as he went about his lascivious statements to the nurse, had Caspian ready to pulverize him into the floor. He’d only heard it because he had arrived earlier than usual for his weekly poking and prodding. And the look on Susan’s face as she finally was able to leave, had him murderous. A look of resigned detachment as she had put up with the older, married man having touched her bottom and hinted that she had best be ‘nice’ if she wanted to receive good marks during her review boards that came every few months. Or there was the time when the slimey cad, Keith Avery had returned yet again, apparently to see some ‘lesser’ relative that was kept there on the hush so as to not shame the family by his infirmity. And of course the little smear of manhood had sought Susan out, unable to leave well enough alone. Those days, those days were bad, as Caspian tangled with his temper. 

It wasn’t that he felt propositioning a woman were deplorable, it was _how_ these vermin went about it. And the fact that Susan was clearly uninterested, even distressed, at the harassment, was what made Caspian see red, his mouth fighting with the need to call out for a duel. His hands would clench, hungering for the hilt of a sword and dagger, needing to desperately get between Susan and whomever was upsetting her, and then punishing them for having done so. 

Both doctors - Anderson and Carter - began pressing him again after the new year changed. Many of the men he had once called decent acquaintances, mediated for even, had begun to shun him, as well. The nurses avoided him, or would stop talking when he came by. He found it strange, yet made no remark to Dr. Anderson beyond the fact that people appeared to have decided he was even stranger than usual. It gave him time to continue his studies on the Tudors, which was as far as he had gotten in the messy history of England.

Susan wasn’t there for the day, wouldn’t be for several and he must maintain. She had said there were some errands she had to see to, though it was her designated days to be off anyway. Since their small picnic dinner, even on her days off, she would come by to visit at least, the two of them sitting in the library, reading together or she would have come with catalogs, showing him devices he was unfamiliar with. Caspian liked to day dream that she was preparing him for the world outside the ward, even if she hadn’t said so. It was a nice thought that made life bearable. But these days off, she wouldn’t be coming to break up the monotony she had informed him amidst a few soft kisses, and if he hadn’t been so focused on keeping his hands above her waist, he may have noticed the worried note in her voice. It was only looking back, daydreaming, as he leaned on the patio’s railing, that the worry registered.

Maybe the errands had to do with the papers they had gone over together? The paperwork hadn’t been exactly onerous, badly worded, certainly, but nothing too bad. Something about allowing Susan access to his accounts - not that he had any idea what sort of accounts he would have, memory wasn’t going to serve him there at all - and other holdings. But he had no holdings, no accounts, no nothing. He only had the meager belongings of a single rucksack in faded out muddy green. No journal, no pictures, only those from his passport and military paperwork that was considered ‘current’, but the embassies that had been reached out to, had denied responsibility for him. That was it. That was all Caspian had. The papers Susan had provided him with, however, allowed her to check into things on her own without worry, and she displayed a more than medical knowledge about law, which was refreshing to him. Once he was satisfied with his Spanish and Latin, he would like to look into better understanding the measurements and rules of this place he had found himself in.

So, perhaps her errands had something to do with all that.

Making himself comfortable in the February air he smoked, settling down to draw since, along with a new carton of cigarettes, a new tablet of paper, and, wonder of wonders, coloured pencils had come in the post. Realism wasn’t anything he was particularly good at in his opinion though Susan said he was good, lines, vines, similar things - organic shapes that didn’t particularly add up to one single thing, those were where he was alright to his way of thinking. At least he found the flow pleasing to his eyes. However, he found himself wishing to draw something specific, something for Susan, a small gift, paltry perhaps, but it was what he had to give, and he would give her everything, anything, if there was any chance of it making her light up. Portraits were certainly not his forte, but he would do his best, and if it took him a thousand attempts to make something passable, he would do so. Besides, there was some lovers’ holiday coming up, and art was all he had to give, when she deserved something.

He was interrupted after a fifth attempt with the door opening. Glancing up, Caspian felt his stomach drop away to the nether. Seymour was in a wheelchair, looking mostly dead, what little weight he had, had withered away to nothing. He was skeletal, his skin dougy and pale, making the ugly pink and red and white of his scars stand in stark relief. Seymour looked like he belonged in the land of the dead rather than the land of the living, and Caspian wanted to cry out, shelter and defend his friend, but what was doing him so much harm, wasn’t something Caspian could do battle with. 

The orderly finished wheeling him out, “You got fifteen minutes.”

Caspian, his voice remaining level by some miracle, “I could return him to his quarters if you have things to do, sir.”

The stocky man grunted, looking him over once, gaze fastening on the pack of cigarettes jutting from his jacket pocket. Taking the hint, Caspian quickly handed them over, and the man left. Left alone, Caspian tugged Seymour’s wheelchair closer, so he could catch a bit of the damp, drizzle laden breeze. It felt nice in a chill muggy sort of way. 

“Captain Obvious,” Caspian greeted Seymour finally after the other man stared vacantly for a few moments, “it is good to see you. They told me you could not receive visitors no matter how many times I have asked.”

It took longer than Caspian liked for the words to have gotten through the fog Seymour lived in. “Really? That’s not...I don’t like that. They said nobody wanted to see me,” face twisting with the words, the worn down texture heartrending. “Said my mam and pap didn’t want to see me, Ten. But the postman, Pembles, he said I’d not gotten any letters anymore. Not after a notice -” a yellowed square of paper was fumbled for, and held out to Caspian, and he took it, the scarred soldier gesturing at him, “- go on, read it. My eyes aren’t so good, and I don’t know...may have read it wrong.”

Caspian unfolded the square, it was worn and frayed from having been folded, handled, fondled repeatedly. It was dated from the beginning of summer or end of spring two years prior, Caspian hadn’t been able to pin the seasons and months together yet, but May was supposed to be warmer as he recalled. The paper stated that there was a serious, horrific accident on the British Railways while en route to the hospital...and dozens upon dozens of people had died. Including Seymour’s parents. 

Gently he probed, “You never did say if you had any siblings, Seymour.”

“Brother gone in Normandy, sister, at an air raid when visiting cousins - they’re gone too,” the two deaths recited with blank, almost emotionless monotone. Brow furrowing, “Say, Ten, you’ve never called me Seymour before.”

Reaching out, Caspian took the other man’s hand, gripping the feeble and tremulous appendage. “Your parents wished to see you very much, Seymour. I am certain of it. Just as I am certain you will see your family again. But it will not be in this lifetime. Fate has seen fit to remove them from this world, your parents do not come to see you or write, because they have passed on.”

A great sigh was heaved, shaking fingers spasming in his hand, tightening and then going lax due to weakness and a lack of fine motor control. “That’s what I thought that paper said. Said so every time I read it. But the docs, they just, they just said nobody wanted to see me, Ten. And gee, can’t say as I would have blamed them. I don’t wanna see me either.” Jaw working, chewing over words and thoughts, before something cogent was managed to be released. He was clearly dying to Caspian’s clinical eye, destroyed by what was supposed to help, or at least, that’s what Caspian feared as he let the other man’s hand pull away, so he could explore under the blanket and robe he wore. “Say, Ten, could you do me a real favour?” 

Another piece of paper was held out, which Caspian also accepted, concerned, “And what would that favour be?”

“Pembles helped me with that,” a jerky nod at the far newer, crisp pages Caspian held, “because if that other paper’s true, then that one you got there, it’s also true. I want you to sign it, maybe it’ll do you some good that it can’t do me.”

Pembles sometimes seemed to be one of the few honest people at the hospital. Which was good, seeing as he was the man in charge of the hospital’s mail, ensuring letters or little packages of gifts got to their proper recipient. He made the rounds himself at odd times, double checking his lists, following up after whatever those who had been assigned to help him to make sure that they had actually done their jobs. Caspian didn’t have much truck with the man, but his own packages were generally passed on to Susan, or he would come in from his evening meanderings through the halls, go to his room, and see that Pembles or someone else had delivered his packages. Unlike most, Caspian received packages, just, never letters, while most gained letters and only the occasional package. There had been times when Caspian wished he gained letters instead, but cigarettes, some sweets, and now, other difficult to obtain items like coloured pencils, or just pencils in general, and decent quality art paper, good razorblades for a quite fine double-edged one and quality shave soap, came with increasing regularity. Susan had explained that the value and difficulty in obtaining those things, let alone so consistently, was part of why some didn’t like him. He had just come to terms with it. But if it weren’t for Pembles, Caspian probably would have never gotten much, if any, of those things that had been sent for him by some unknown benefactor. 

Examining the document, Caspian read it over, top to bottom, bottom to top. Finally, holding it out half way between him and Seymour, “My friend, this is...”

“No one else for it to go to,” the words slurring. “No other family, no other friend, just you.” Then a sunny smile broke out, messy and some drool came, the look dumb and beatifically happy, “Wedding present, hey? You and Nurse Fisher, you two should get hitched. Won’t make people shut their gobs, but what’s it matter? I heard some noise about the two of you and Christmas Eve. She always smiled real special for you, smiled real special for everybody, but you, you always got the best, walking like a lord and his lady. Looked right, looked good.” Head bobbling, “You just go on and sign it down in the post room when Nurse Fisher comes. Fill that place up with laughter, hope you like fish. Blue...water’s so blue....blue, blue fish...” the words wandered off into a babble.

Eyes burning, Caspian put away the legal document, and tucked the death notice of Seymour’s parents back into the inner pocket of the brown dressing robe the battered vet wore. Carefully he squatted so he could better hug the man, who swayed and rocked, muttering to himself, his heart heavy. What comfort it could bring, it was there for Seymour, who let loose a confused moan before burying his head in Caspian’s shoulder. He didn’t move other than the slow rocking, humming soothingly to Seymour, cupping the back of his head with its close cropped hair as the man grabbed at his jacket, hanging on, the broken groan of a lost soul muffled, the pain released. Caspian didn’t know how long he held his friend, but when the bout finally ended, Seymour was weak - weaker and drained down to further dregs - and Caspian cleaned up snot and spittle, wiping it away from his fallen brother’s face. Quietly, he vowed to press the issue about visiting Seymour as much as possible while he yet lived, no one should have to suffer like that alone.

XXX

Caspian was firm twice a day, refusing to be swayed or moved aside, his countenance was stern, and once he went so far as to impose upon Pembles for assistance. Seymour was visited twice a day, and Caspian would read to him, open the window, or muscle Seymour’s cot so sky could be seen. When there were fits of shakes, Caspian waited them out patiently, holding Seymour’s hand, and talking about Latin versus Spanish structures in the languages. Just dry words, but they bought time for Seymour to return to himself, a voice, an anchor to reality. 

He was aware he was being watched intensely, but Caspian neither knew nor cared why, signing anything Pembles gave him to sign. For there seemed to be a few strange certificates that arrived, needing witness, or some other. He was grateful to Pembles for the help rendered, and he didn’t know how he could ever repay the man for the kindness shared out. He also got the distinct feeling that the retired soldier was keeping an eye on him just as Caspian kept vigil for Seymour. 

Returning from his evening attempt at making sure Seymour was comfortable, having managed to get some broth and tea into him, Caspian entered his rooms, temples throbbing. If only he had some access to poppy flower juice, or some other potent palliative, he could perhaps help Seymour let go of the agonized flesh he wore. Trying to formulate some method of easing his friend’s pain, he halted his removal of tie and belt, taking note of his dresser, with drawers askew, and the tray atop it that held his grooming items was empty. 

“Caspian, I didn’t expect you back from your walk yet,” Susan’s voice was strained, coming from his bed, and there she was, in her uniform, but it wasn’t as neat as usual, making him raise a brow curiously. 

And then he was frowning, as he took note that there were two suitcases, sturdy things of lovingly dyed oxblood and golden rich tan leather, bearing the stamp of one of his repeated doodles. “Susan, what is...what is going on?”

“I’m trying to pack your things,” clothing, neatly folded, was layered in the deep suitcases, and much of it was clearly of a civilian nature, which he found passing strange - all he had were patients’ pajamas and military uniforms. 

A glance cast towards the green rucksack that he used as a hamper for his dirty laundry, “Those do not look like they are mine.”

She huffed, shifting a few things here and there, “We need to talk, but there’s not that much time.” He was about to ask, but she carried on, not looking at him, “The rumours are turning into well believed fact. Everyone’s been saying you’re not interested in women, that you’re a homosexual.”

Confused, Caspian still set about checking over what little was in his room, “Why would anyone care if I was? Not that I am, but even so, what two or more consenting and willing people do is nobody’s business but theirs.”

“Caspian, you don’t understand,” and it was one of those rare times he heard her frustrated, but a check on her expression and he realized she was afraid, really and truly afraid, hanging onto calm by a thread. “That’s _illegal_ here. Without family, wealth, power, or social standing, if they wanted to do something, they could lock you up, really lock you up, forcefully inject you with chemicals to castrate you, and you would never be free. They would toss you in a room to be a vegetable, maybe even go so far as to lobotomize you, and you’d be _defenseless_.” There was a hiccup, “When I got back, Pembles said that you were ‘seen’ with another patient, that it was ‘indecent.’ He swears it wasn’t, that it was Seymour, but there’s been...there’s been rumours for so long, and nothing I’ve done so far has dispelled them, and -”

Taking her in his arms quickly, Caspian squeezed her to him, still not understanding the babble, but he did understand that she was afraid and felt that he must leave, “Alright, so I need to leave. I understand.” His heart was pounding as what she said began to click into place, not the reasons, but the meaning of flight, “Seymour has given me a document to sign, and I have held off on it. It is for...it is for a house.” Caspian had kept it with him at all times, carefully hiding it before going to the showers when it was time for that, and he showed her. “I do not know where this is, but if I sign this, it is mine, correct?”

A sharp sniff, a little watery sounding, she looked it over, “St. Ives, it’s in Cornwall. Caspian, no one can know where we’re going except Pembles. I’ll just call Dr. Nance, he was one of those I was interviewed by -”

“What?” confused again.

She gave herself a shake, “Caspian, we have to marry. That way I can sign you out, and we’ll have to go somewhere else. The city won’t be good for you, my boarding house is only for single women, and then we need to make it difficult to get to either of us. If we leave, legally, with you in the care of your wife, then it makes it very hard for them to level charges of what they call gross indecency against you. We’ll go to St. Ives, they have hostels, and we’ll investigate, and I’m certain I can find work as a nurse, or at least someone to help an older parent or other... But Dr. Nance, he was a friend of a family friend, and he’s in St. Ives, though I had been speaking with a few other doctors in other little parishes -”

“You have been planning this?” he asked her as the long rush of information washed over him, some in order, often not, pausing for a moment, and making her still long enough to take a very necessary breath. _Breathing is good, need air for that, my bright lady._.

Blue eyes skipping up to him, “I thought maybe Christmas Eve would dispel the rumours. Or the fact that we’re so often seen together. But it wasn’t, they just say that...you’re using me to cover up what they claim is your illness. It’s why I had you sign all those papers in the library, I put in the documents to get a certificate of marriage. We just have to get Chaplain Mulgrew to officiate, witness and sign our names to it, and we’ll be wed.” She pulled away to return to double-checking everything, pulling out a set of clothes, and began urging him to change, busy hands and it wasn’t anywhere near so erotic as it would have been in a different situation, “I got looks at your files, real looks, not just little glimpses, and there’s so much more in them than what you were told.”

Stripping quickly, Caspian switched to the twill pants, legs thrusting into the trousers, “Like what?”

“For starters, you’re a widower,” the sentence causing his head to jerk up in surprise, and he felt a bizarre sense of relief at it. Thankfully she paid it no mind, her concentration focused elsewhere, continuing, “You’ve a veterinarian's certificate, it was issued in Spain, but it’s still good here, at least it means you’ve got the training. And you were a field medic - no clear surname. Just the X, which is strange, but maybe it’s due to being from a fallen house or something, possibly born on the wrong side of the sheets, I don’t know Spanish customs on that.” The uniform he had been wearing was packed away, his dirty laundry in the rucksack topping off what was in the case, and Susan was bouncing on it to make it close. “There’s a little trust fund at the Bank of England, and I pulled out what its particulars were. It’s from there that your cigarettes, sweets, grooming and art supplies seem to come from, paid for in trust... You’re not wealthy, but you’re not without means, either.” She gave a last huff of thoughtful effort while he finished shoving his feet into his shoes, “It’s not a lot to go off of, but the fact that you didn’t have any guardians or someone to speak for you, the hospital’s pressed for cash sometimes... Patients who pass on, leave things to the hospital or if they’ve no one else to look after them, and the patient’s a ward of the hospital, their pensions or other assets, come, which helps ease some of the hospital’s upkeep...” None of that made sense, the words did, but he didn’t understand what that had to do with anything, before Susan was cycling back to the other topic, “Father Mulgrew is holding the last of your things, and the sign out sheets.”

Wonderingly, just sitting and staring at her for a long moment, processing it all, then levered himself up to stand, “Why do all this for me, Susan?”

Her silly little hat was righted, her hair tucked a little this way and that, trying to disguise how anxious she was, while she looked at him completely earnest, with eyes shining, her entire being focused upon him. “Caspian, I lost everyone in my family on a single day two years ago. Everyone. I lost them, and I’ve been all alone. You’ve made me feel like I have family again, a friend that is that close, close as blood and closer. And even if you really are -” Caspian made a face in denial of such a thought, men were certainly not built in a way he found attractive, “- even if you were homosexual, I wouldn’t let them do that to you. Not to you, when you’ve been one of the first really good things in my life since then. You saved me from my own despair and loneliness. With you, I can be Susan, and it’s alright, there’s no other fear, no other thought, just Susan as you see her, and I want to be, and think I can be, that Susan again.”

As Susan was going to the door, to take a peek out, he stopped her with a touch to her elbow, “Susan, you do know that...that I care for you, really and truly? And if you would do me the honour of allowing me to be your husband, I will do my utmost to be worthy of your regard, friendship and care, so that you may never feel that this was a rash or burdensome decision.”

That banished a bit of her frenzy for a moment, her hand coming to stroke his cheek, caressing his face in a long sweep, before standing on her toes to kiss him quickly. “Silly man, I wouldn’t do this for anyone but someone I feel that same way about, which is you and only you.”

His suitcases were heavy, containing far more than he expected, there must be much more than just clothes and his few artbooks inside. Not that Caspian had doubted Susan’s assertions that there was more to his name, but the weighty proof was tugging at his arms as they both briskly went to the little chapel of the hospital. Proof that also put the hospital in a worse light, that they had confiscated his possessions, providing ones that were carefully screened to make him believe whatever they decided he should. The chapel wasn’t a fully separate building, but it was in one of the larger gardens that Caspian had risked on only one occasion prior. His heart was pounding, but he was well girded against anything that may come, for panic would not aid him, and it could very well put Susan in a further compromising position. He bore no illusions about what she was doing: Susan was sacrificing the security of her current life for the uncertainty of one somewhere else. Yes, she said she had spoken to a few doctors who had need of nurses, that may hire her, yet these weren’t sureties. Especially if word somehow reached those potential employers of her making off with a patient. Just because if the roles were reversed, and he would do the exact same thing to keep her safe and whole, it didn’t mean that he could discount what she was doing. Yes, they were courting to some degree, and there were many liberties each took and shared with one another, but nothing was official. No formal declarations of intent, no matter how often Caspian told her how much she meant to him, in words and deeds, so her actions were above and beyond any he would hope for, dare to request, let alone _expect_. Even a spouse wouldn’t necessarily be required to take such risks, so this was special, heroics fit for sung praises and ballads, no matter how quiet and matter of factly the risks were faced and undertaken for deep, platonic, romantic, and filial love.

Inside the slate and mortared rock addition building, Caspian found that more than just the chaplain - a spiritual advisor, but one he had never made any use of, not feeling the need - but Pembles and Nurse Lewis... He was more surprised by Nurse Lewis’ presence than anything else. Pembles had been helpful, but Nurse Lewis, as warm as his feelings had been towards her once about the fact that she was a studiously pleasant woman, she was still part of the group that had forced Susan’s hand to take drastic action. She had the grace to flush when he fixed her with an unsettled look, not saying a word, instead tugging Susan, who cast him a reassuring smile, to the side door. 

Stiffly he stood, taking in the polished wooden pews, the odd iconography here and there, and, desperate to think on something else, “Seymour is doing very poorly, and I fear what will happen to him after...”

Pembles, handlebar mustache in a bushily groomed carrot orange couldn’t be much into his thirties, but the facial hair aged him. A few stray comments Caspian had heard, made the man sound like he came from an interesting background, and where Keith Avery had looked comically useless in the funny socks and checkered tweed trousers that ended at the knee, Pembles did not. “Ah, no worries, my boy. I’ll look after him myself. Just as you looked after him like a brother, I’ll look to him as well. Some of us remember what it means to carry the honour of brotherhood that all us who have served.”

Unsaid was that Pembles wouldn’t have to watch over Seymour for very long, days, weeks, anyone with eyes knew death was coming fast.

Father Mulgrew looked barely old enough to shave, a strange dichotomy, but his voice was vast and deep, strongly melodic no matter how soft the words were spoken, “After Susie returns from her changing, we could hold the ceremony in Seymour’s room. It’s just a few words, with Pembles and Nurse Lewis as witnesses adding the last bit of weight to it. The Lord’s sanctity and love is everywhere, not just here in the chapel. He only needs be called in the heart of the faithful, it can be shared anywhere, and He especially shares it with those in the most need of His love. Exalted joy of this union, these friendships, and brotherhood, is a gift that grows with the sharing.”

Swallowing thickly, moved, he looked at both men, hand over his heart and bowed deeply, eyes downcast, “I cannot sincerely thank you sufficiently for what you have done. Whatever your reasons may be, I am forever indebted to you. Without the gifts of your help, it would take no stretch of imagination to see failure at every corner. Thank you, a thousand times to say it, would never be enough.”

Pembles coughed and cleared his throat, pulling a long, soft leather case that, like his suitcases, carried similar emblems, “Think nothing of that, Ten. Men don’t need to thank each other over what’s just and honourable action, chap.” Another gruff clearing, “I wouldn’t want to swing any of that about while you travel, nice family heirlooms, well cared for, I’ve kept it free of rust, good edge on them. Or maybe you’ve been to a good fencing school. Never did see blades like that in such working order, my boy, antiques or not, still wouldn’t want anyone to try and deprive a man of his weapons because he was showing off.”

Caspian straightened, taking a peek inside, and the smell of oil, pumice and fine steel, the finest steel known to man, met his nose. The pommels of hilts met his gaze, daggers, a longsword he was sure, and a heavier bastard, all evenly balanced. Scooting some of the baggy leather down, baldrics and belts were there, wrapped and tangled in measured chaos, and several sturdy pairs of leather pants and vest, even a thick leather jerkin, and from the weight as he pushed a hand deeper, he felt studded leathers to go with it all. From how the whole thing humped at the bottom, Caspian guessed that what wasn’t wrapped around the weapons’ scabbards, was shoved into boots. Strong fencing and riding leathers, gear of an older, likely long out of favour, style, and something that felt right to him anyway. He had a sneaking suspicion that all of the items carried the thirteen pointed star compass surrounded by vines and thorns. 

A smile twisted his face up, “Not much of a soldier without my weapons, now am I? While I may not be able to walk about with it openly, I shall cherish what you have returned to me, friend Pembles.”

“And here comes your bride,” Father Mulgrew interrupted, saving them all from further thanks, demuring and all that mess.

She was wearing blue, he loved her in blue. Caspian loved her in everything, so long as it wasn’t over starched and bleached white. There was even a little sprig of pink flowers in her hair that had been rolled up again, a paler blue crocheted snood taking much of it, holding it in order. A little colour on her lips, her lids once more bearing black slashing swoops, and the blue of her dress was deep and rich, echoing all things solid and true, the small white flowers printed onto the fabric only making the blue even more sumptuous by contrast. Just as all that made her skin fairer, her freckles pop, and -

Releasing the words with a shaky, awed breath, “The sky is in your eyes,” as soon as she was close, which had the effect of turning all the right parts pinker than they already were, so that she was glowing. 

Beyond that, Caspian lost all train of thought. Their belongings were tucked behind pews, and they made an easy going procession, taking back ways and pausing if they heard orderlies or nurses passing by. They weren’t exactly _sneaking_ , but they certainly didn’t want to be stopped either. Seymour had to be gently shaken awake, Susan sitting on one side of the bed, Caspian on the other. He looked happy, genuinely happy, drugged to the limit as he was, his every breath laboured, yet even through that, his fever bright eyes were clearer than they had been in a very long time. 

It was all over so fast, a garble of words Caspian didn’t remember the meaning to, held hands and a kiss. That was all it took for the marriage to be finished. A few minutes were had, their little group talking, and they sat with Seymour just as they had when waking him up. Caspian hadn’t been paying attention, dazed as he was. Freedom, hope, _and_ marriage in one fell swoop? The marriage itself wasn’t so important (even if part of him felt it was, just, in the grand scheme, it wasn’t the source of wonder in the moment, only what it enabled them to do.) In no more than a few hours from start to finish? Caspian was a man of deep and abiding faith, but what he had read of Christianity didn’t fit, had felt incomplete, wrong, stifling. Of course Father Mulgrew was Christian, yet he exuded an air that didn’t fit with what Caspian had read of the religion that had caused wars that devoured families, nations, kingdoms, and sciences, bred hate, and ignorance over the course of thousands of years. No, religion itself didn’t matter really, he just knew, without doubt, one hand holding Seymour’s, the other holding Susan’s who was sitting so she could also rest hers over he and Seymour’s clasped ones, that what was right and good was happening, no matter how hurried and fantastic, and his heart sang praise rather than prayer. For the moment, their marriage was reckless need and convenience, but also founded on strong footing, waiting to grow to fruition. His blood and heart roared in his veins, strangely comforting for all its loud pounding, and when Pembles had said it was time to leave, Caspian suddenly felt an enormous weight lift from his heart, lightness and peace overtaking him, buoying him even more.

Beginning to rise, leaning over Seymour, about to thank him for his friendship and presence, Caspian looked at his brother in arms. All the pain had melted away. The wasting that had shriveled and finished the war’s job, was done. Yet, the heavy mark of it was smoothed by the secret smile on Seymour’s face, eyes open, and rather than being unseeing, they were...in awe, as if he had caught sight of absolute perfection and paradise. 

Susan let loose a gasp, and Caspian squeezed her hand, tucking her against his side, reassuring her, even if his own voice was tight with emotion, “No, no, do not be upset, Susan. Look at him, he was happy, the pain is gone and he has gone home to his family. He is at peace. He went with love, silly and strange as he could be, he had joy and managed to find hope somewhere, Susan, and that is all anyone can dream of.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *twitch*I'm not sure where all this is coming from, or how I'm able to manage it thus far, but I'll ride the wave as long as it lasts.

Eight  
XXX

Susan was tucked against him as he stared out the window. The coughing, huffing, knocking chugs of Pembles’ automobile had left Caspian nervy, anxious and shaking. Especially with the high running emotions of the last few days, further intensified by a few hours where loss and salvation came in the same moments. He was a _mess_. Caspian was just quiet about it because it wouldn’t do anyone any good if he showed just how close he was to falling over in a screaming fit of terror. When they reached the train station, he had bitten down on a shriek as squealing metal and tortured puffing sounds came from the long, unliving, metal dragons, his whole body straining against the need to grab Susan and run for a corner, where maybe safety could be found, a flash of himself brandishing his weapons as he kept her pressed back - that was how crazed he felt. It was all strangled down, kept steady, focusing on the weight of luggage in his hand, the texture of the handle that wasn’t the hilt of a sword, admonishing himself over and over to follow the cues of those around him rather than his gut instinct. Mind ruled body, knowledge overcomes fear, and Caspian wouldn’t, couldn’t give in until they were safe. It was a fact he couldn’t forget, not until they were somewhere truly secluded, that _they were **not** safe_ for the moment and he must do battle in a way that didn’t involve clear, obvious opponents (at least beyond his mind and body seeking to fail him and send him into a shrieking panic.) Pembles had helped them get situated, waving goodbye to them from the platform when the chugging had begun, and Caspian had forced himself to smile, wave at him through the window, and then stay still in the lurching of the train. 

Susan was asleep, and he watched the night blackened world outside their fantastical conveyance, rarely lit by a few lampposts, and more frequently by fogged moonlight. He was still terrified, but he must maintain, not just for his own sake, for if he lost control of himself, Caspian could very well be hauled back, throwing away everything Susan had done, everything the others had done for their own reasons. Besides, Susan had been anxious herself - and he found out why, which made it even more important he remain solid, so she could take shelter in him. Her family had been taken by a train in one fell swoop, but the great machines were the best way to get around the country, reliable, affordable, generally safe. Accidents could happen to anyone...even a pedestrian could take a tumble, get lost, or die, Caspian knew that. His main issue was that a train wasn’t made of anything he understood. Plus, they were noisy, clattering and belching out foul smoke, the squeal and whistle of breaks - all of it, quite unpleasant. Yet it moved fast, he would give it that. They had informed him it was a little more than three hundred miles, and would take eight hours total on the bus and more like twelve during a break in service - this seemed completely impossible to Caspian, but he didn’t know, didn’t understand, so could only nod his acceptance of the reported, improbable speed.

Being that it was a late evening train, going a fair distance, they held much of the particular coach to themselves. It had allowed them to be comfortable, selecting the most prime of the seats. Susan had gone so far as to take off her shoes, and he had covered her with his coat after she curled up beside him, her head resting against his shoulder at first, until she eventually scooted and curled down even smaller, while he twisted so she could better use his lap for a pillow. It allowed him the luxury of stroking a stray curl of hers that had escaped the snood, or moments to trace her brow, her round nose, or the dimple in her chin. In the morning, they would leave the train station of St. Ives, and find temporary accommodations, spending a bit of what he was certain was precious coin. Then they would look into the cottage Seymour had blessed them with, and Susan could speak more formally with Dr. Nance. Before drifting off to sleep, Susan had spoken more in depth of what she had been doing, using old family friend connections to put the word out that she was looking to settle in a small town, one with a village doctor in need of an assistant, and some affordable lodging. Quietly, they discussed their assets, she had two houses to her name, family houses, one that had belonged to her immediate family, in the place called Finchley she had mentioned a time or two. Another, larger, grander one, that had belonged to the Scrubbs was also rented out, providing a larger rent, if not always as reliable as tenants didn’t always stay as long in the more costly abode. There had once been a third one, belonging to Professor Kirk, little cottage had been sold off to pay for her nurse schooling and to help her get situated once everyone had died, but the other two houses... They provided rent monies, a small, fairly steady income. So long as they were occupied and decently maintained, which, since she couldn’t do it herself, meant that someone was hired to do it. This somewhat limited the income, but she had moved quickly to reassure him that it wasn’t too much of a decrease. Those two properties, with his bank account, and what she had set aside over the last few months, would mean that they would be alright if they were careful. 

After Seymour’s remains were tended to, they would be brought to he and Susan by Pembles, since the quick discussion while waiting for the train, they had all come to the decision of cremation. Caspian liked the idea of spreading Seymour out at the property, no matter its condition. He was a little worried about the state of the cottage. More likely it was good to distract himself thinking about it rather than how the train ramble-shook as it went along at unnatural speeds. A few years with no one living there, it may not be fit to live in immediately. That was his first and main concern to see to as speedily as possible, and any fixing or securing, would be coinage drained out of their pocket. He didn’t know what to expect - would there be a bed to sleep on? He would have to clean it, make sure it was free of pests, so on, so forth. Any furniture present would have to be inspected for termites, damage... Cooking utensils, obtained or cleaned, or...there were so many things to see to, making the fretting over it a better excuse for his unsettled bearing, and could easily explain any stress he displayed.

There was a wait and change at another train station, a wait that would take a few hours Susan informed him. Caspian refused to let Susan carry her all of her belongings since she was dead on her feet, and there was no set of third hands from Pembles to share the load, so he took the heavier suitcase for himself, while also affixing a sturdy leather strap to one of his own so it could be more comfortably carried, the weight distributed from his shoulder and across his chest in the opposite of his weapons bag. Her things that she would be bringing immediately, were split between a pair of very smart, dark green leather suitcases, and a brighter due to fading valise. There had been two enormous trunks and a large wooden chest that Pembles would be bringing along with Seymour’s remains later on, once things were in order, so that the last of Susan’s personal and sentimental belongings that weren’t stored in the Scrubb or Finchley attics, would be returned to her. She handled the lighter of her two suitcases along with the little green ladies’ night valise, while they shuffled from the train to the platform. There commenced several hours of waiting, the station opening and waking up in places. His nerves were jangled and raw to the point where he prayed that he was in a state of numbness when Susan showed him how to operate special boxes that held a few prepackaged foodstuffs. Coins were inserted to pay for the goods, but the one that deposited a flimsy cup with ‘strong’, boiling hot tea, was the one he liked best. Best was, of course, a very relative term.

Mumbling around the lip, unconcerned by the weakness of the beverage, which the heat of it was no doubt supposed to mask, “I miss coffee, weak tea is only good for warming a body up, not soothing a mind. Or a mug of heavily mulled red wine, that would do nicely.”

“When the world’s gone all wrong,” Susan’s nose crinkled from her smile which wasn’t hidden by her own little paper cup, “there’s not much else to rely upon other than a cup of tea. Headache? Have a cup of tea. Bad day? Cup of tea. Your bills are piling up or the mortgage is late - tea! Your favourite guy you’re sweet on asks you to marry him? Tea! Good news? Tea! You felt the baby’s first kick? Tea! Tea is for all times and any time, Caspian. Can’t say that for coffee or wine - it’ll make your head all funny.”

“I have yet to down a cup of tea that was not much more than murky hot water with strange tastes in it,” Caspian carefully set down the luggage then helped her also be divested of what she carried, so that they could eat their sandwiches and drink their tea. “At least, what I have had as far as I can remember in the last year or so, has been nothing like what my tongue and brain tells me tea should be like. It is _horrible_. And the sweet stuff they put in it if you do not catch them in time to stop them, it tastes like rat poison or the ingredient to make very beautiful, if terribly dangerous, green pigments. _Zarnikh_.” [Persian word for ‘yellow’ which is the basis of the word (al) zarniqa, which led to the Greek and Latin words for arsenic.] Trying to recall the word he had seen for it, it was different than the one he had known it as, “Arsenic.”

“Sweet? You mean saccharine? What’s wrong with saccharine?” Susan gave him an odd look.

“Tastes utterly unnatural,” he shook his head once. “Would rather do without than touch the stuff. Who knows what it is even made from? If it cannot be easily identified, replicated in a home kitchen safely and without complex preparation methods, then it should not be consumed - there are enough poisons we are exposed to, why add more just for a bit of bitterly, fake sweet? Substance is better than illusion in most things, at least if you want to rely on it, and that is certainly one of those cases.”

It was a curious expression, pondering, picking and choosing her questions. “White bread or wheat?”

Brow popping up, “White bread has its place. But I like something packed with seeds, nuts, and oats. Tastes better, warm it up a little, dunk it in soup, slather it with a bit of butter or honey, maybe marmelade... Far better, also can throw anything into it if one ingredient is more scarce...”

“Can you cook?” like the very thought was a little odd.

“Of course,” a chuckle rolling free. “I am not wondrous, or highly skilled, but I can feed myself sufficiently... Or at least I am fairly certain of that...” trailing off, frowning, then shrugged. “My gut response is that yes, I can cook, and rarely have ruined anything I have attempted. Some baking, coal fire roasted breads, sometimes a loaf or other, I _think_ are my more adventurous attempts in poor settings. But the catalogues you have shown me, I do not know how these cooking ranges work with the knobs, you will have to show me, so I do not burn down the house trying to warm up some soup.”

Back and forth, little questions that hadn’t cropped up while under the pressure of the hospital were asked and answered. The kind of questions that people took for granted - favourite colour, age of first kiss...but in Caspian’s case, the ones that would be intrinsically linked to memories...weren’t ones he could answer. For the most part, they managed to avoid those, though there was the occasional, reflexive probe leading to a stumble when Caspian would try to dig deeper and find information within his traitorous mind. He was good with horses, he know that as certainly as he knew the colour of his hair - while Susan claimed she had never ridden. Yet there was something wistful in how she said it. A daydream longing, like someone who had dreamed of doing it so realistically that it was almost a memory of actual action, leaving a vacant feeling when the realization came that it hadn’t happened. 

“What is St. Ives like, do you know?” he asked after having returned with refills of tea for them when it looked like she needed a moment after the wistfulness had led to misty eyes, mentioning that her siblings and she had played make believe once upon a time, and made himself comfortable as possible on the wooden bench.

“It’s on the coast, it’s warm, I’ve been to a few similar beaches back when -” a sad smile, “a few years ago. Just not St. Ives itself. But some of the others I had traveled with said it was very nice weather, if a little out of the way, sleepy, and boring. Since what they considered boring sounds perfect to me, I think it’s their loss and our gain. There’s not a lot of conveniences the way there is in London, but there _is_ a modest library, and I _think_ there’s even a museum, and there’s even several doctors serving the parish itself. It’s a fishing village, so that’s good - plenty of work to go around when there’s fishermen out and about.” The thin gloves she was wearing were plucked at gently several times, “It wasn’t high on the list, it wasn’t low on the list of names I’d managed to come up with. But, it’s nice in that if we’re feeling adventurous, we can easily take the train line anywhere. Maybe even to a bigger town where we could find you some decent coffee, no matter how it will turn you into a wild billy goat, hopping about on all that caffeine,” the last was delivered with a tease. 

That had deserved a kiss to her gloved hand, but it, and the topic of horses, had him wondering if it were possible to have such a shared rarity as a horse or two. It may take some time, several years even, but Caspian thought that it would be nice to have that. And if they couldn’t somehow afford to have horses of their own, maybe, since it was an agricultural area, but also a place some sought out for holidays or the well off maintained summer homes, there may be a stable of some sort. Wherever there were stables, there was always a chance to barter work, favours or some other item, to gain a chance to ride. Sometimes stables needed experienced riders to help keep the mounts well accustomed and exercised, and would be happy to have that without any favours exchanged. The last thing was fairly unlikely, but one never knew for certain one way or another until actually investigating it.

XXX

The rest of the journey had been uneventful. Peaceful, and there were moments that he (almost) forgot that he was riding in a great metal contraption of unknown locomotion that was known to - occasionally - result in catastrophic accidents and mangled deaths. If the entire Pevensie and Scrubb clans, and Seymour’s parents, could have all died from various train accidents, well, Caspian was within the realms of sane to be on the wary side. Give him a horse, a stagecoach, anything like that, and he understood the inherent dangers. They made sense. Screaming metal wheels with humans in cages and no animals to drag, push, or otherwise move, the conveyance, just was... Well, it didn’t do to dwell on it.

He was only relieved when it was all done and a person at the train station, after a bit of questioning, chatting up, with the two of them had done their best to look earnestly nice had resulted in being directed to a particular hostel. (Not that Susan had to try, she always had that air, Caspian was fatigued, still reeling, and trying not to flinch, wild eyed, at every sudden, unfamiliar noise, so had to struggle to find his own charm.) The walk would have been nice if it weren’t for the rain and the vast weight of luggage he was toting about, but someone halted in a rambly carriage, that wasn’t drawn by a horse - a very different looking automobile than the one Pembles had driven, though both were black. It was a nice older man, with a silly, fairly useless, floppy hat (unless combatting chill was its purpose, then he supposed it would work) who was happy to take them to the hostelry. Light conversation was had, Susan happily chatting and enchanting the gentleman, while Caspian added what he could, when he could, aiming to be as congenial as she was to the best of his current abilities. 

The place wasn’t a hostelry in the manner Caspian had expected. There were no stables for horses, or, at least, no longer for horses. Out behind the pub, which was once a pub and inn, but now held flats above and the pub below, was a stable divided into a few rooms for short term rents of several days to several weeks. It was homier and cozy compared to what Susan had expected - which the description of her idea of a hostelry was abysmal compared to his own ideas of what a hostel was. So, no horses, no straw ticked pallets in wooden boxes, a place without stable boys, or any refilling of packs, it wasn’t a hostelry to him at all. No cramped, rickety cots barely wide enough for a single person, but expected to fit two; no worn thin and possibly washed, possibly unwashed linens, all without unreliable access to a bathroom - those were Susan’s expectations that were unmet. Instead, a modest bed, with fresh linens that were neatly folded resting atop the unmade bed, along with a blankets, and a thick duvet, towels, and even a bit of toilet soap, greeted them when the two little lamps were turned on in their single-window accommodations. From the looks of it, he supposed it would have been half of the hayloft, before being divided and separated from the rest with wooden walls. They were on the thin side, but at the moment, he was so tired, Caspian wouldn’t have cared if they had had to sleep on the open floor of the pub with other patrons, with he and Susan sharing a blanket or two. All in all, a vastly superior bit of happenstance.

There was a moment of uncertainty as they stuffed their luggage to one side of the room, Susan having already dug about in her valise for her sleepwear, and holding it in her hands, chewing her lip. Caspian turned his attention to making the bed, so that she had some privacy, and he debated with himself as to what sort of sleeping arrangements they should share. The bed did look very inviting, sleep was the only thing really on his mind, but he was at an impasse. If he were alone - well, at the hospital he hadn’t felt he could do so, at least, not after the first time and suffering through a huge lecture on social appropriateness from Dr. Carter - he would strip down to his undershorts and socks, and not a single stitch more. However, he wasn’t alone, and while Caspian was legally Susan’s husband, and he felt strongly for her, wanted her, craved her, he wasn’t entirely certain if they were at such a point in their relationship that he could be that free with himself without it being deemed ‘too much’. Or if he wore anything beyond the abysmally uncomfortable, genital twisting, rump invading, bunching up in underarms pajamas, that she may take it as pressure. Or even rejection, because sleeping in his clothes sounded more comfortable than his sleepwear, and if he did that, it may mean he didn’t wish to chance being near her. 

“Caspian?” Susan’s voice prompted him, bringing him out of the blank staring he had been doing at the flower patterned duvet being topped off by some eyesore of wool in plaid. (Flowers, plaids, dots, and checkers were distressingly pervasive everywhere they seemed to go, and while the polkadots weren’t so vile, the others were eye numbing visuals. Why couldn’t anyone do a nice paisley? Or arabesque if they needed patterns? Solids were better, anything was better than some of the agonizingly delicate mix of flowers or badly rendered images of fruit on washed out, badly dyed cloth. Or even worse, delicate bone china, a shuddering thought there.) She was under the covers, sitting up, watching him, “Are you alright?”

Blinking a few times, his brain was attempting to register that her shoulders and arms were bare, a soft apricot nightdress revealing them fetchingly with a rather daring amount of cleavage, and he sat down heavily in the hard, wooden chair under the shuttered window. Rubbing his face, fingers carding through his hair for a moment, eyes rolled back as he clenched them tightly, he admitted, “Exhausted. It has been a long day, and I do not think my mind has caught up to it, while my body is protesting the fact that my eyes are still open...even though if I close them, that may not lead to sleep.”

“Then do what you need to do to get comfy, Caspian,” she instructed him gently, “and come to bed. Even if you can’t sleep immediately, you need to rest, to at least let go and not move for a bit, eyes closed, and no strange stimuli battering you.”

“There is comfortable and then there is comfortable,” he sighed, voice quiet, not really complaining. “I think there has been enough culture shock for the day, so I err on the side of caution.”

Susan sat up higher, turning down the covers on the other half of the bed, hints of chiding entering her tone, “Caspian, so long as you’re not about to race into the streets wearing the same outfit as the day you were born, _you_ have had enough discomfort, stress, and sleep deprivation, that whatever it takes for you to sleep, is what you should have. Now, take off those shoes, your feet are probably killing you, I know mine were. _And_ you were up all day yesterday, when was the last time you slept?”

Carefully taking off his shoes, he wondered if it were possible to get at least some kind of ankle-boot as the shoes he had wouldn’t hold up well to actual labour fixing up a house. “Yesterday at six in the morning is when I awoke.”

“That’s it, come to bed, and no complaining, I’ll sit on you if I have to,” Susan’s look was more worried than disapproving, her full lips puffed up and pushed out just enough like she wanted to whistle sharply, like he was someone in need of grabbed attention to get him to take care of himself.

Caspian tried to chuckle, but it came out a lopsided, tired smile with a grunt, and he began to disrobe after heaving himself up from the back numbingly ramrod straight chair. Jacket hung on a peg, shoes by the door, shirt folded and set atop his suitcase, “I mean no offense, but you will need to make a statement now if you will be put out by me sleeping in my shorts,” back to her still, stretching after his undershirt was removed. “Because as soon as I sit down, not even for a fire am I getting up again until I have managed at least three hours of sleep.”

If he weren’t so tired, the weight of her gaze on his back would have warmed him to his toes. And if she weren’t edgy, a little tired, a little nervous as the enormity of what she had committed herself to probably dawned on her (or Caspian _guessed_ that was likely what was going on behind those deep, sky filled eyes of hers, into the mind that housed the psyche that was capable of nurturing, protecting, and when necessary a suitable amount of brow beating) - maybe then her look would have been curious, possibly even interested. Instead, it was as prim as her voice, “If I said be comfortable, then you shouldn’t make me repeat myself. Except you’re tired, trying to be your generally genteel self, and doing your damndest to be considerate because you care, so I’ll forgive you for making me say it again. Come to bed however you need to. Some other time we can both be worried about finding a ‘cultural’ -” said with just the tiniest of eyerolls and extra emphasis, “- middle ground in sleeping arrangements.”

Finally as Caspian let himself flop onto the bed, Susan turned off her bedside lamp, then leaned over him, tucking up the covers as he halfheartedly wriggled into the blankets. He had the presence of mind to at least lay atop the sheet, even if it exposed him to one of the layers of duvet. Unlike the odd order of layering required at the hospital, Caspian had gone sheet-duvet-woolen nightmare-throw, so as to ensure no chance of coming into contact with the institutionally unpleasant plaid fabric. 

Shoving his folded arm under his pillow, using it to prop up his head, Caspian offered his other arm to her if she wanted it, “If I have not mentioned it, I probably should remedy it. If I already have, it bears repeating.” Susan was shifting her pillow so that it lifted his shoulder, creating a slope as he spoke, so it looked to be that in spite of things, there would be some close contact anyway, like she felt the desire for a bit of anchoring too. Caspian found himself touched by that.

He forgot to finish what he was saying, because Susan had stopped her maneuvering, her hand resting on the center of his chest, head cocked and listening. But he had forgotten, and she prompted him, “What did you think you hadn’t mentioned?”

Caspian shook his head, “I forgot...just...very happy to have found you. Or, to have been found by you.” Squeezing her a little closer, “I am not making much sense, but I am happy, no matter how out of sorts.”

Sweet skin and the taste of her lips on his, her hand slipping away, and his bedside lamp clicked to quiescence. When Susan broke free, the weight of her head settled on his upraised shoulder, fingers stroking and taking a meandering circular path over his upper chest, tugging the flat hairs there, shifting them this way and that, “After some sleep, we’ll make more sense, and everything will be better.” Another kiss, this time to his chest, born from a rub of her cheek and a deep inhale, nose pressed to him, “I’m happy too.”

XXX

_They would die, his uncle’s army was coming. Caspian knew it, and no amount of wishing could make it otherwise. It was something that ate at him, how he should have killed Miraz when he had the chance, it would have thrown the Telmarine army into disarray temporarily. At least it may have bought more time, more time for better fallbacks, more troops to arrive from hidden Narnian enclaves, the wounded to heal enough to be really useful, all of which may have given the Narnians a chance. A slim one, but a chance while the Council of Lords feuded amongst themselves to decide who got the honour of leading the extermination and taking credit for it. A little time, a little chance, but not much, not as much as anyone could pray for, because the armies of Telmar had already been mustered and were a well made device for destruction and conquering others. A siege machine that, once built, prepared, and made ready, required little leadership to go about its bloody work._

_The Gentle Queen had come to find him where he sat, staring, unseeing, but seeing too much, like how went further preparations of the How for the upcoming battle. A few weeks, perhaps a month, not much more than that before the Telmarines would arrive. Her horn, beautifully and intricately carved, was cradled in his hands, which stroked the bone in long, unhurried caresses. Soothing, the habit had been born after awakening to hear Trufflehunter, Nikabrik and Trumpkin debating his fate, and was a habit that hadn’t left him even now, months later. The touch made his palms and fingers tingle, much the way touching a willing, trusting, woman’s skin under his hands would also cause sensuous thrumming that lacked sexual urgency. That it was also the way he wished he was touched by someone was a thought, wish, hope, prayer, realization, that wasn’t allowed to be fully taken note of. Telmarine men didn’t want that sort of tenderness, rejected it out of turn when it was offered. Women didn’t seem to mind receiving it, taking it as a precursor to foreplay, or a languid, possessive follow up after a tryst. But rare was the man who would submit to such a touch for whatever reason._

_But the horn in his hands filled some of that need._

_And the Gentle Queen Susan was sitting there, watching him, waiting patiently for him to pull himself free of his brooding. Caspian knew she was there, knew he was being terribly rude, but if he looked away from the darkness that was coming for them, the darkness his mind’s eye saw, then he would look to her. Which would result in the horn no longer being sufficient to meet his need for contact._

_...Caspian was certain that if he looked to her, that he would no longer be able to keep his hands to himself. Up until now, he had managed to maintain some level of appropriateness in their interactions, even though he often found himself sitting beside her, shoulder to shoulder, just talking. If he looked to her now and his hands were allowed to act remotely as they willed.. Caspian would have failed that test of self control. If he looked, he couldn’t guarantee that he would keep his mind, his eyes, his thoughts, his pleas, or his longing, to himself. Caspian had known women far more comely, physically endowed as though created for the single purpose of leading a man to hunger, jealousy and lust. Given a few more years, her form maybe that nice, but she was still physically younger than the courtesans he had known that were made for inspiring such blind lust. Susan_ was **very** _beautiful, even though she had not quite attained full physical womanhood, since there was a difference between the fifteen or so she appeared, and a woman in her early twenties. All of that was true, but it was the **light** that radiated from her that drove him half mad. It was likely that her very light is what made Prince Rabadash of Calormen so many thousands of years ago, hunger and slaver after her, imprisoning her in hopes of keeping her all to himself. No matter that it wasn’t any sort of literal, physical glow, it was just something inside her that burst forth to answer the need around her._

_Of all the daydreams, fantasies, and imaginary playmates that had sprouted up to fill his childhood and years leading up to the present, Queen Susan was not the one whom he had believed he would feel so drawn to. History painted her as nurturing, sensible, and eager to avoid any conflict possible...history painted her in such a way that her beauty was the most important aspect of her, followed swiftly by maternal activities. While history had painted Lucy quite differently...and it had been the Valiant Queen’s phantom that Caspian as a boy, then youth, then young man, had thought would be his daydream impossible desire. A little prince daydreamed of what his eventual wife would be like, and he wanted one who was eager to play, read, think, and valiant enough to whack about with swords. A little prince daydreamed himself the perfect friend. And a little, lonely, childish prince, wasn’t very interested in a woman known mostly for beauty - because girls were still strange, unknowable, frightening, and a little gross, creatures. By the time said prince, himself, would be at an age, where anything remotely attractive, would hold his interest until he had it, and the fairer sex was no longer so off-putting, the beautiful ones were to be used, and only the daydream was a measuring stick worthy of being treated as an equal in a young, dumb prince’s mind. While now, Caspian should hope he wasn’t dumb or only interested in a shapely bit of symmetry, it wasn’t just the physical he reacted to, or wanted, or **needed** as a starving man needs food._

_No, the reality of Susan was different than symmetry and idealized features._

_High King Peter was quick to draw steel, quick to attack, driven forward by bruised pride, anger at the injustice of having lost his world, his home, his place. King Edmund was a warrior without compare, but counseled caution or would leap to reckless action in defense, or because it was right, a paradox of caring and aggression. Queen Lucy was innocent and naive, untouched and disbelieving of what was actual evil in the world, quick to go on her own offense, just as her eldest sibling and fellow tow head, was, even as she was quick to turn her back having granted forgiveness that allowed a knife to plunge into her back. But Queen Susan... It was fitting that the dark haired ones were more akin to one another, just as the lighter ones were._

_Edmund was the soft, delicate hand encased in a shell of steel. Susan was the implacable, flexible, unbreakable, made of the finest mythical metals, sheathed in the radiance of gentle touches and kindness. For her, there was a melding of both, twisting together until they were one and the same, either or coming to the fore as needed or as she felt._

_“I’m only so patient, Caspian,” interrupting, forcing him away from anything that kept him from trying to drown in her light. “Women don’t like to be ignored, and queens like it even less, but I know everyone needs a bit of time to do that occasionally. It doesn’t mean I’ll wait forever.” Susan’s tone turned dry, “Particularly since we don’t have forever.”_

_Steeling himself against the beacon she was, Caspian turned enough to look at her, sitting on one of the tiers of the How, comfortable in the inelegant setting, owning it, absorbing it, and untouched by it. “No one has forever, my Queen.”_

_The imperfect, rounded arch of a brow rose on her forehead, all the freckles that kissed her face shifting with the motion, “Your Queen, is it?”_

_He agreed, “My Queen, yes.”_

_“And what makes you entertain the notion that I belong to you? Seeking to lay claim to me, I’ve never done very well with that, you know, and I’d hope that detail was included in the history books if nothing else was mentioned of me,” wryly. “What makes you say that I am your queen, when you don’t call anyone else your anything?”_

_“A monarch is the light that shines on the people, showing them the way, leading, when there is loss on one side of the path, and desolation on the other, picking out a path between, looking for a route towards better,” Caspian stated carefully the saying General Glozelle had taught him, grooming him as a military mind and future king, as Heir to the throne of Telmar. It was an ideal condensed and expanded upon in that sentence, far beyond what Professor Cornelius had taught him of golden ages, ancient heroes, and implausible dreams. “Your siblings do not lead me. They may supplant me and overrule me, outrank me in the eyes of the Narnians, this is true - but your siblings cannot lead me in any particular direction, other than through the fact that I must do what I can to protect my own people, as wherever my people go, is where I must go, and am forced to go, in hopes of guiding and navigating through the ugly storms and squalls of the worst ocean when near perilous shores.”_

_In the light of the slowly setting sun, the sky was aflame in purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, all shades of true blues vanished and engulfed by the blaze, changing to endless and dark indigo at the edges - but it was still clear to see the brightest blue of a perfect day. The sky was in Susan’s eyes, the earth in her hair, the ripest sweet fruits in her cheeks, except for the plump berries which were her lips...the clouds were her flesh. And she was that perfect day given form. And he had no right to look at her with such longing, yet couldn’t help himself._

_...And she was examining him intently. “Ships at sea easily crash upon the rocks, Caspian. If rocky shores are all around you, there’s destruction and despair even for the prepared. If you’re to navigate them in any meaningful way, you need a light to guide the ship that is your nation, filled with your people, to safe harbour.” He didn’t respond, he only waited, because what else could he do? Anything he said would make him sound a fool, or desperate for something she wasn’t going to give the likes of him. “You look to me for that guidance and not my honourable or wise brothers - or my very blessed sister, who is the one closest to Aslan of all? People would call you a fool to do that.”_

_“Their opinions are gusts of wind in the rigging, irritating, distracting, but ignored in favour of steering and watching for more important things,” Caspian hitched a shoulder, rolling the horn around, index finger tracing the wide bell lip. “Any steady light that is true, will lead me far better than shocks of inconsistent lightning, blind faith, or pessimism.”_

_“Then stop diving into the darkness, Caspian,” she held her hand out, and he began to pass her the horn, but she reached beyond that with a hand stronger than any Telmarine lady of standing would ever possess, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “If you’re to be sunk in a storm, and I’m to be toppled and smashed to the ground, we may as well have eyes for nothing else but the light and hope for as long as we have it.”_

_Not rising yet, Caspian found it in him to resist her inexorable pull for a moment, “Why me, my Queen?” Then he immediately regretted the question, for the only answer could be that it was because he was **there** and there wasn’t anyone else suitable available for a few hours of feeling alive. He was, essentially, the last man to her last woman, and she would settle for what she could gain, no matter his inferior quality compared to Narnian standards._

_Descended from pirates who sought to wipe Narnians out completely, from a line of unwelcome and harsh invaders - Caspian bore no illusions. Queen Susan didn’t know **him** well enough to see if he was like his predecessors or not, his name, his weapons, bearing, and entire visage, was of the detestable oppressor. No doubt, to her gaze, he was about as attractive to her as Nikabrik was to him. But he would do in a pinch, not that Nikabrik would ever do for Caspian, it was the overall notion. _

_No matter that this was fact to her Narnian perception, Caspian would at least prove himself in this one arena to not be lacking. Hopefully she wouldn’t wish to take pleasure in the dark, for he wanted his last memories to be filled with her responses, something to flash before his eyes as whatever manner of death would take him in the upcoming battle. And if she wished to only feel, not see, Caspian would submit to that wish of hers, giving up his own wish, for she was granting him a gift, no matter if it was done out of begrudging desperation._

_The Queen of Narnia seemed surprised, shocked even, by his query, as though her reasons were as obvious as the direction of a rising or setting sun during clear weather. “Why? Because you see **me** , Caspian. And to be seen, to be looked to, to be known, to be sought and accepted, is to be real to someone other than myself when to all else I’m just daydream and fantasy.”_

_Caspian's breath caught, looking into her eyes as he finally rose, her conviction there, clear as the brightest sunrise. Moistening his lips, "If I could, I would know the woman, my Queen." With his wrist held so firmly in her archer's grasp, he dared to touch her cheek, her hair, briefly tucking a loose strand behind her ear, "May I know you, my Queen? May I know the woman you are and share what I have with you? Please, let me know Susan Pevensie, who is also Queen Susan, but vastly more and less, yet still far more real than any other truth."_

_She released a startled breath, her eyes glittering with a brief flash of moisture, her grip firming on his wrist, "You want the woman and not just the queen?"_

_"Anything you would allow me, I would want," head hanging Caspian admitted. "And I would count myself blessed, no matter what ruin is done to me after. But the queen is not the woman - the woman is what makes the queen herself. If I could know all of that, see all of that, even for a second, then there is no greater wonder in any world, in any life. While I may not have the same gift to give, nor even the right to, I beg this of you, and you can have all that I am."_

_He didn't say that her light was all that made him a man, her guidance, her encouraging looks, the fact that she had agreed **with him** against her  brother, not once, but twice, that she had bolstered him, and shown him the way... Their lives may all be forfeit, lost and crushed under the coming Telmarine army, but, for all his experiences of his young adulthood, Caspian hadn't ever been a man until she shone her light upon him. He hadn't ever dared hope, until she showed him it was possible. He hadn't felt any worth in himself, his ideas, his ideals, no matter what pretty speech fell from his lips to inspire others - but **she** had believed in him. What was more...she wished to let him see **her** , even if she had only offered her queenly guise to him now. The queen who was assured of herself, her potency, her own wisdom and counsel, comfortable with her own body, mind, soul and **actions**._

_The Gentle Queen was searching his face, his gaze, and Caspian struggled to withstand her **intense** scrutiny, before she asked him softly, "You've no idea, do you, what you ask of me?" He was about to beg her forgiveness, but she continued, calloused fingertips reaching up to touch him just under his eye, "You want Susan Pevensie? A girl who plays mother to her siblings and her people? Who's rather silly when it comes to playing in the surf if nobody's looking? Who can't stand embroidery and spinning and weaving, no matter how ladylike those tasks are, but does them anyway because she has appearances to keep up, and if she doesn’t do them, well Lucy won’t even try? Susan Pevensie who can't stand being gusseted up to be paraded around for a bunch of boys playing at being men, and think to impress me with whatever thing they managed to kill like barbarians, and that's when they're not throwing fortunes at my feet?"_

_Understanding some of what she was asking, Caspian nodded. "If there were time, I would wish to know which side you prefer to sleep upon, which trait you find endearing in your siblings, and which drives you to distraction, while you seek to hold them all together, keep them on track, provide a hearth and home for them, even when you wish for your own adventure, your own life and autonomy, with a safe harbour of your own to return to. How you sit with a book, the manner in which you brush your hair, the motion of your writing, the lines of each expression and what would make you pensive or smile. I would know Susan Pevensie if you but gave me the chance, my Queen." He paused, correcting, daring so very much, "If you but gave me the chance, my **Susan** , I would take that chance and grasp it tight, never to relinquish it."_

_Her fingers in his hair, tugging him down, and Caspian finally knew what he had begged her to allow him as the kiss was shared between them._

_Caspian had asked her to let him love **her**._

_"No one ever wants Susan Pevensie," she breathed beside his ear. "No one has ever wanted her just for herself, not ever before. You'll be forced to let me go, Caspian. The queen you could let slip from you when it was time. And the queen could let you go."_

_He slid his free arm around her, holding her tight, "Let me know Susan Pevensie, and I will never let her go, nothing will ever chisel her from me. If I must, I will let queen and woman walk away from me, but not even absolute annihilation could prize her from where she is held safe and deep within me, my heart and mind are full of the light that you, the woman sheds, and no darkness can ever snuff it. **Please** , Susan, let me -"_

_"Love me, Caspian," a full body shudder wracked her. "Love me for myself, and let me love you, for the gift you've given me that **no one** save for Aslan Himself has. Love Susan Pevensie, and let her love you, for whatever time we do have."_

_He nodded, but he was aware that while time was not on their side, eternity would be, and he would love her even in the darkness of the nothing. He would let her go, either in death or for anything else (not that he had any hope of them both surviving what was coming, but if he did dare to hope, he would still love her no matter whence she walked). That didn't mean he wouldn't do all he could to keep her by his side, either. Or follow her, it mattered not._

_But woman and queen were both making demands upon his body, not just his heart and soul, and he followed with a being that was truly, for once in his entire existence, filled with light. Caspian was her man, mind, heart, body, soul, and in the end, his life belonged to her as well. He would be the man she seemed to think he could be, one who could lead, who could protect, listen, see what was hard for others to see, and to love anyway, and ultimately, a man who could love with his whole being while keeping the most precious of gifts, of sharing, as she entrusted her truest self to his care. Caspian would be that man and hold himself to that standard for every breath and beyond, for the gift of her belief, and the treasure of her love that would drive him to do more than even the not-so-mythical Aslan could ask of him._

Surfacing from the dream, briefly, the tatters were unimportant, pleasing as they were, and he forgot that they didn't describe the present, only pressing his face into his Susan's crown, breathing deep, before sinking back into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine  
XXX

St. Ives was a small town according to the barkeep - not much more than three thousand souls called the village and surrounding area their home. To Caspian, it had the feeling of a great deal of people, not that he could say why. That was the problem with his amnesia more often than not. Sensations, recalled knowledge of things (like when a particular quality of bruise indicated something dangerous, like internal bleeding - he could see the image, but only the focus of it, nothing else, quite literally being unable to see a forest for the single knot on the trunk of a tree), impressions, smells, habits, reflexes... That was there. All of that was present. When they passed plants, he was able to identify many of them and their uses, but wasn’t able to say why or how he knew those things. Conversely, he knew nothing _about_ himself. Was the information about himself in the documents Susan...liberated...true? Was he twenty-five? (There were times when he looked down at his body and thought he was twenty, twenty-one at most. Others, he was baffled why he was so hale, so fit, ghostly impressions saying he hadn’t always been, that once he had been weak and worn, ancient before his time.) Was his birthingday truly in the month of August? The very word for the month sounded foreign, unnatural. And even more paradoxically, for if it was only information about his own self he had forgotten, it would make sense - instead, there were so many ‘normal’ things that left him flabbergasted, frightened, unsettled, or just outright confused. Like, how could it be that he knew so many practical things, yet didn’t know others? Automobiles, trains, planes, light switches, lamps with little buttons or knobs to make them flash on, penicillin, an unending and infinite amount of items that Susan and those around them, all took for granted as everyday and mundane, why didn’t he know these?

His mind, his history, his knowledge, his core and being, were like a monolithic encyclopedia on millions upon millions of bits and pieces. The very building blocks, the ability to speak, to move, and the more complex pieces that were knowledge he could converse on, how to make bread, other easily taken for granted items... He was that encyclopedia, holding all the knowledge of a man from the littlest speck to the complex - and someone had gone in and blacked out swaths of that. Erasing it, selectively, picking and choosing, the finest painter’s brush obscuring all but words here and there when it came to complex or applied knowledge, while physical reflexes were left entirely intact as far as he could tell. Whomever, whatever, had gone through and redacted, removed, erased, consumed, devoured so much, had been careful. Yet, if they had been so careful, why didn’t he have knowledge of prosaic, ubiquitous items that were ‘modern’? 

Of course Caspian was aware that nobody had done such a strange thing to him. It wasn’t possible, at least, as far as he knew - but what if it was? If some outside force - an outside force beyond trauma, damage, and just the general fate of bad accident - had managed to go through him so selectively, why would they do that in the first place? It was better to accept that there was no rhyme or reason to what he had forgotten, versus what he remembered. 

What struck him hard one moment, was when he overheard someone make the offhand comment that he was clearly ‘not from around here’. Inside Caspian had snorted, had almost blurted out that they didn’t know the half of it. Such an outburst would have been unfortunate, running counter to the way he and Susan were presenting themselves. A nice, newlywed couple, with the husband a veteran with a bit of leftover wounds from the war and a little dinged mentally due to the amnesia, but overall a ‘real swell guy’. While the wife half of the pair, was a sweet, gentle girl, who was happy to help tend to wounds coming in many forms - a nice, newlywed couple, ideal, young, and desiring a quieter, settled life away from hubbub and the strain of city living. It was all true, but there was being a little ‘different’ and ‘off’ that was acceptable when new to an area, and being _off_ , _strange_ and _different_. Outbursts would put him in the more dangerous versions of ‘off’ and ‘odd’. Caspian chalked up those feelings to no longer being trapped between two walls seeking to crush him, the relief of such dangerous pressure had caused him to spring a few mental ‘leaks’. He would work to regain his equilibrium, he expected to also to have a few breakdowns, just, hopefully none so bad as the ones Susan had lovingly helped him through when the hospital had gotten to be too much a few times. 

Logically he understood that how he was feeling was ‘normal’, reasonable, that stress, helplessness, despair, and fear would become a heady mix, that even the strongest, most well-adjusted, would collapse under at times. Once free of those pressures, the drawn tight ball of concentrated man would frequently fall completely apart, sometimes for only a little while, and some never recovered from it. Caspian refused to be bound by that damage, even as he understood there would be times when he was utterly helpless to the collapse. Wounds of the mind, heart, and soul, were just as dangerous as more visible, clear cut ones. Yet it wasn’t fair to Susan to have her be his constant caretaker through those storms. He wanted, nay, _needed_ to be there for her when she had her own ills. And they were there, stirring here or there, hints of the pain of her own losses, guilt over surviving or not having said something, or guilt of having said too much. It was best that she didn’t neglect her own wounds just to care for his, and it was also best that he do all he could to help both himself, and her. That is what friends did, that is what families did, and that is what spouses did, for one another. 

The barkeep had helped them inordinately, assisting them with getting in touch with the town solicitor, one of two of the whole parrish. The next morning, first thing, while Susan was working a few details out with Dr. Nance, Caspian walked about town, nodding and smiling genially at others, waiting for the after lunch appointment with Mr. Vissick the solicitor. Susan had warned him to not just up and introduce himself, except in the common room of the inn, and if anyone opted to approach him, be courteous, but imply he was just taking some air to think, yet if it seemed wiser to go ahead and converse if the local initiated, he should go ahead and do so. Very strange custom to Caspian, but he accepted that she knew her own kind better than he did. There were times when he saw someone not really busy, just out on the stoop, smoking, or maybe using a watercan to water some flowers - and his every instinct told him to wander up, nod, smile, and begin commenting on the weather. That was what felt normal and natural, but Susan said that it couldn’t be done that way if they wanted to make a good impression.

Caspian released a chuckle to himself as the idea struck him that maybe he should write up a list of English rules, their customs, and the ever lengthening number of things that were Just Not Done. Susan may find it funny, she may not. He would suggest it later, lightly, to gauge her reactions. The more he thought about it, the more it actually sounded like a good idea. Caspian was functioning with more than just the handicap of amnesia and being a bit twitchy, but the people were as different to him, as a goat was to a chicken. If he had some list of behaviours that weren’t spoken of specifically in etiquette books, Caspian would have an easier time not stepping on toes, or making more work for Susan in repairing any damage to their presentation.

Well accustomed to people looking at him askance, their eyes taking him in, and his dark skin that wasn’t so deep because of working outdoors which was the reason any of them were so swarthy, his mop of thick brown curls, and to top it off, if, for some reason, they heard his accent, and even without that, there was his body language and facial expression, that declared him very different. Seymour had said he moved like a lord - a lord with his lady, true, but like someone of high ranking social status. Caspian couldn’t help it, he was himself, however he was, and while it may be somewhat detrimental, he knew small, tightknit places like St. Ives, that word would get around _very_ quickly that he was a foreigner. And if any word traveled due to a handful of exchanged words at the common room, or if someone approached, or through the gossip of whomever Dr. Nance’s cohabitants were in his office-home, heard anything about he and Susan - it would hopefully be what Susan and he both hoped for in content. Offhand comments veiled, like Susan laying her hand over his comfortingly when something startling and loud came by, her quiet word that it was an automobile, a bell from a bicycle, or something else, and not to worry, would be overheard. It would let locals know he was spooked from something, and accounting for his age, they would all (hopefully) speculate that it was damage from the war. If that was how it went, then he would also hope that word just as quickly spread about how sweet Susan was, and maybe, if they were lucky, observations on what an ‘adorable’ couple they made. 

The worst that could happen, is that the townsfolk would ask about what a lovely young English girl was doing with a foreign veteran who could be from one of the colony legions, but ‘who knew for sure yet?’ Perhaps he could prevent that with a bit of what he had always called ‘pub politics’. Nothing so obvious as buying a bunch of beer for others, that was clearly bribery. No, he knew exactly what to do, and returned briskly back to the hostel to dig through his things and find his artpad. Maybe a little bit of preventative common room presence would skew things in he and Susan’s favour. Still, speculation would run after awhile, the new members of the group sussed out over and over again, every little thing picked at and disseminated to all, then assessed, opinions made... This was the nature of close groups, close people, ones who had to rely heavily upon their neighbours, whether they were just outside the door, sharing a wall, or if they were acres, or even a few miles, away.

Several pages of knotwork similar to icons he had seen about or read of in books back at the ward were heavily detailed, spread over the small table in the inn. His work was set so that others could peek and peer without being ‘obvious’ about it, and positioned so it wasn’t obvious at all that it had been his intent to draw their interest. When Susan returned, ready for lunch after having her interview, she came while he was in the midst of a game of darts with a pair of heavily accented men, who spoke in a thick brogue interspersed with words that he was well aware weren’t English, but he didn’t know the meaning of. Not that they sounded like bad words, it was just a local dialect of some sort. The older gentleman who had invited him to play the game of darts, was the same as who had helped Susan and he from the train station the day before. Introductions to ‘the boys’ and admonishments to step up and test his hand at the game of darts instead of ‘smudging up good paper’, had come from the old man by the name of Massan. 

What a great deal of the questions he did find himself fielding, was what sort of thing he and Susan were looking for, prospects, a rental or a home. When he said that a war buddy, saying the phrase no matter how trite and odd it felt on his tongue, of his, one Seymour Smythe, had named him beneficiary of his will, so that on his passing, Caspian would inherit the home, that had drawn lots of silence as other men, who had been pretending not to listen, forgot to keep pretending. Caspian stated the truth, edited and smoothed, made gentler. That since the war had left Seymour in need of care, he had remained at the ward, and when Caspian arrived there for his own ‘health’ (no mention of what had been wrong) he and Seymour had become friends. What with the elder Symthes having passed on so unfortunately, and Seymour becoming - well, Caspian just stated that it had been rough for Seymour, and his friend had dropped the property on him with no warning. The only stipulation was that he and Susan fill the house with laughter to balance the scales. 

Everyone had known about the Smythes, had known about three children, two dead during the war while it was active, the third, unable to come home. They had all gone very quiet, their questions unspoken and heavy. No doubt they wished to know how bad Seymour’s injuries were. Did he suffer? Did he go peacefully? Caspian didn’t answer the unspoken questions, instead he finished his round of darts, and requested something a little stronger than his half finished beer, which he would drink with his lunch, for the moment, he needed something ugly and sharp. Matthias, the bartender and owner of the inn, refused payment, carefully watching and not watching Caspian’s hand tremble for a moment before knocking back the two finger tumbler of hard liquor. Caspian thanked him by way of a nod and tight grimace that was trying to be a smile and failing. Other than that, he drank no more alcohol, not looking to become even remotely tipsy. 

Thankfully the voices picked up again, men having observed what they - or so Caspian hoped - perceived as a socially acceptable and appropriate response to grief. It led to an hour or two, listening to the men, with Susan being the only attending female, talk about the Smythes, Seymour in particular. Begging someone’s pardon, one scarecrow scraggle of a middle-aged man doffed his cap in Susan’s direction, a tale of coming upon a well liquored Seymour trying to help his equally soused friend help a downed cow up - the very reverse of cow tipping. Or there was the time when Seymour, as a young lad, during a hot summer, was chased by his dear old mother as he high tailed it fast as his little legs could carry him, in ‘naught’in but ‘is altogether!’ hooting and hollaring about cold water. On down the lane the young Seymour had ran, darting and impossible to catch as any greased pig at a faire until he slipped in a bit of ‘brown road nuggets’. Oh they said Seymour was a troublemaker, but in reality, he wasn’t, it was his older brother spurring him on, and that one, well, he had the luck of the Devil the folks said, nodding, laughing. Beer flowed, and Caspian nursed his, but still drank more than he had intended. It didn’t matter that the impromptu wake was delaying the solicitor, Mr. Vissick had just added a tale about the Smythes in general, how Mrs. Smythe made the meanest rhubarb pie, or how Mr. Smythe once went after a local ne’er-do-well with his hoe, chasing him off the property. The last to speak, was one of those men who sat ramrod straight in spite of the heavy weight of years resting on his shoulders, definitely not one of the men who worked in a field or boat Caspian guessed, and curator of the museum. Apparently there were a great many historical finds just laying about in St. Ives, a varied history that Caspian could dig into later if given the chance. Caspian had always guessed that Seymour was rambunctious, but what he hadn’t ever noticed a hint of an inkling...was the fact that Seymour had adored the local history. He had hoped, planned, and worked towards taking studies at a university, as he wished to know Cornwall’s history, expand on it, preserve it for the sake of future generations. 

The lunching time was over, a few of the men were wobblier as they left to go about their business, spread the word to those who hadn’t heard, or their wives so that it jumped like wildfire from one mouth to another ear, until all knew for sure. It was too many people and too much intense focus for Caspian, but he was grateful for the wake, it was good to hear of Captain Obvious as a man in control of his faculties. A man who had cherished life, and was, more often than not, a quieter sort than the handful of silly stories and exploits could adequately demonstrate. Seymour had been true to himself, no matter what the damage and poisonous medications had done. The young man who wished to be a historian, had given back to St. Ives, filling the hole that denoted the absence of the Smythes in the last act of a long line of small bits and pieces, gifted and shared out to any and all. Caspian felt it right and appropriate to tell them that Pembles would be coming in the not too far future with Seymour’s urn, and that he had intended to scatter over the Smythe property, so Seymour could come home, to be part of the laughter he requested the home to be filled with. The urn would go to where his family was if it were possible or allowed to him. Manly tears and coughs had sprung up in a few eyes at that, all saying it was well and good, and to let them know when Seymour had come home. It was after that that Mr. Vissick was finally able to get on with the long walk around and through and out of the village. 

The long scenic route was on foot, and Caspian was more comfortable with that, listening to anecdotes, taking note of the grocer, the baker, the butcher, jeweler, blacksmith locations. Susan’s arm was linked through his, at least for awhile, or when she spied something that would make him uncomfortable due to not understanding what it was. This was one of those problems he would have to go about fixing on his own, for the moment, he was grateful she was there. 

Solicitor Vissick, in his houndstooth tweed suit (Caspian still couldn’t tell much about garments beyond ‘ugly’ and ‘not quite as ugly’ for almost every single person in England) strode along with a firm, steady gait. Caspian was between the Englishman and Susan, who would occasionally lift a hand to shield her eyes, scanning their surroundings, a hint of a smile curving her lips. Most of the walk was quiet, the area immediately around the village an area of houses of varying materials and sizes plopped parallel to the road, but well back, surrounded by plants of hundreds of types. 

Flowering shrubbery caught his eye, “Camellias? Tea bushes.”

Mr. Vissick looked towards him, “Good eye you’ve got there. They’re ornamentals.”

Shoulder hitching, “Plants are interesting, and most any kind can be ornamental, even potatoes are decorative while flowering. I should like to make inquiries if anyone has seeds, cuttings or bulbs they would not mind sharing. At least, if there are not any of the camellias on the property already.” Susan’s hand brushed against his, fingers tangling lightly as she relinquished his arm for the moment, and Caspian asked, “Mr. Vissick, where might I find a goodly supply of seeds? If I have the chance, it would be good to get a nice garden going, as gardens were where we,” meaning himself, Seymour and Susan, “found the most ease, a distraction from the...” 

Susan spoke since he had lost his tongue, hand back in his arm, lending her closeness in the only way she could in a new place, “Hospital gardens were the best place to forget about being there. Outside with God’s earth instead of in those awfully dreary halls.”

A brisk nod, “Fresh air does a body a good turn.”

Hoving into view, a breakaway rutted lane, where wheels had worn down the ground, someone had come by frequently enough to maintain the track. Down the lane, which led to a white cottage, mortared field stone made up the foundation, travelling up the walls by several feet, before it turned to whitewashed cob, windows like wide, happy characters of eyes dotted the two story building, which was topped off by a thatched roof. Thatch was a decent material, but it needed proper care -

“Some of the townsfolk check on it and do a spot of upkeep,” Mr. Vissick interrupted Caspian’s sinking thoughts. “There’s getting to be too many houses that aren’t as full as they once were, but the Smythes were particularly good folk, remembered fondly. It’s much the way it was when the Smythes left to go visit Seymour...”

Caspian released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, as did Susan, and they shared a look, a quick smile of relief, even as he felt a sharp stab in his breast over the tragedy of lost families, swept aside by war. “If there are any homes needing a bit of attention, I would be happy to add my own hands to the task in any way that I may, Mr. Vissick.”

The older man’s stride hitched momentarily, and an actual smile touched the solicitor’s face, “Only after you’ve taken care of your own home, Mr...” The smile faltered, puzzled, “If you don’t mind my asking, I’m not aware of what surname you’d like to use, ‘x’ seems to be something of a placeholder on the writs.”

He replied easily, using one of the suggestions Susan and he had gone over, even as she had been flustered when he put her own surname forth, “Pevensie.”

It was Susan’s surname, that was enough for him, but she had thrown out a long list of suggestions, including some that were clearly Spanish. They hadn’t settled on one, so his documents all said ‘Caspian X’ and Susan Pevensie if both of their names were necessary. Eventually they had decided that they could always go back and come up with something else. Pevensie, a good, solid, traditional sounding English name, one that added a person to Susan’s family. That was good enough for him. 

In his grasp, Susan’s hand tightened even more, to a point where her knuckles had no doubt flashed white, then loosened. With how their hands were held, he could feel her wrist rubbing against the inside of his own wrist, and it seemed to him that her pulse was beating very fast. Hopefully it was good and not bad. If she was unhappy about it, he would point out an observation he found very important...if English senses of propriety, gender roles, and situations dictated he had to do all the speaking for them both when it was with another male, then if she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say her own piece, add her thoughts (ones he would be very happy to hear, because he wanted the situation to be shared) then he would be left to make decisions for them both. Not always would those decisions be ones she was fully satisfied by, but he wasn’t able to read minds, so her silence for whatever reason, was a hindrance to shared decision making. So, he was Caspian Pevensie, and that was fine by him.

XXX

The people of St. Ives had done a consistent job in preventing any actual dilapidation of the cottage. The land itself bore signs of being left to be grazed occasionally, mowing down the tall grass. It was still in need of a great deal of tending, the surrounding acres gone to seed and mild neglect, the garden run wild, a few vegetables having continued to propagate no matter the lack of tending. As for the cottage itself, it was sound, the roof appeared in order, but Caspian wouldn’t know for sure until a good rain came. Furniture was clumped together in places, so that dropcloths could be used more judiciously. Pots and pans had signs of the moist air and no use, in desperate need of scouring. Water came from handpumps that brought up the water from underground, there were rain barrels that were no longer in useful condition that would have once been a secondary source of water if necessary. 

Susan told him that they would _probably_ be left alone for a week to their own devices, cleaning and cleaning, Caspian working side by side with Susan. Their first night was a blend of odd and wonderful. As soon as the solicitor left, Caspian and Susan had set to work, targeting a smaller bedroom, where the mattress had been taken from the bed itself, and draped over the footboard, making it easier for him to hoist and take to a better place to beat the dust from it. But within a few hours, Old Man Massan came by, his little car hop-rattling and jangling up their lane to the house, put-putting loud enough to cause Caspian to look out the open window to see what was coming. There was a plump faced woman whom Caspian could only be certain was Massan’s wife seated beside him, the automobile jouncing. Susan did a few fluttery worried sounds while racing to the kitchen to see if a kettle was in any condition for use, but he sincerely doubted anything was quite ready for that at the moment. While she was doing that, Caspian tugged a shirt back on to go greet their guests, straightening himself up to some sort of appropriate degree. 

“Evening, sir,” Caspian greeted him, then turned towards the man’s wife, bowing to her, “evening, miss.”

“Din’nin Aye tell yee, Doryty, regular lord, lad’s so polite,” a deep guffaw showing off teeth that had seen better decades quite some time ago. 

Doryty’s eyes widened, and maybe it was viewed as exaggerated, but then she smiled when she probably guessed he had been quite serious, “You’re not having me on, are you?”

“No, miss,” he asserted. “Please, come in,” stepping back from the door, “we have not gotten all that far along, so I beg you to forgive any mess...”

“Oh no, we came with you and your missus’ things,” Doryty answered while Massan was still chuckling to himself. “And a bit of gnosh to get you two through until you get on down to the grocer.”

Susan appeared, as if by magic, smilingly insisting that Doryty enter and they could talk or whatever was considered normal, and Caspian quickly moved to grab their luggage from Massan’s buggy. Hoisting the heaviest bits, Caspian made himself keep Massan’s pace, which was slower than his own, “Thank you very much, sir. I had planned on returning, but I got distracted, you see...”

“Think nothing of it, young man, me an’ the missus was happy tae do it,” his thanks waved off. “Don’t get much young folk comin’ in, and what with no kin fer ye tae help ye settle in right nows, ‘tweren’t right tae not at least pop by when goin’ home from town. Four properties west, that’s where we be, was just right on the route.”

Luggage was shuffled, removed, and Massan ushered Caspian around to a shed and storage area, showing him where cannisters of lamp oil had been stored. He could only guess that Doryty was helping Susan find some of the things that they had overlooked themselves in the midst of their narrowed focus on clearing at least one room to house them for the evening. The married couple stayed on for an hour or so, both repeating the location of their property. The vegetable pie was supposed to be like a mince pie, but contained no meat at all. Caspian didn’t mind, it was filling, stuffed well with leeks and cauliflower, some thickening agent - potato starch he supposed - with water and dashes of dairy for the taste and look of almost being a white pie gravy. 

The first week went like that, someone dropped by, spending an hour or so, lending a hand here, giving advice, and word must have gone around that Caspian had been interested in planting some camellias, and a modest little bush had been dropped off. A baby tomato plant came next, so on, so forth. Nothing was mature, just side plants, ones that would need good tending, but were more than seedlings. Great fruit trees had been there for decades, maybe even predating the Smythe arrival to the cottage, for they had many limbs. Grand pear, several varieties of plums, cherry and apple trees danced from the front yard on one side, while the gnarled and massive trees were echoed on the other side by walnut, chestnut, a single hazel tree and two mulberries - one red, one white. Close to the house itself, poofed out berry bushes were well represented, all in need of some trimming. Little thought or imagination was required to conjure up children hopping, climbing around and on the trees, turning them into castles in their dreams. Battles and rescues had waged across the yard, the thought making Caspian smile, and maybe in a few years, those fantastic games would be rekindled in another generation.

Sometimes it was eerie to be rummaging through and finding what was in dressers, only to realize that the items contained therein had belonged to people who no longer lived there, and certainly hadn’t been alive in some time. The home he and Susan were going through, shaping foot by foot to fit their needs, had, not so long ago, belonged to others, ones who had been there for more than a century. Ghostly memories were everywhere of people who had resided, nestled into the cozy rooms, nooks and crannies, poking and prodding with inquisitive fingers in the mind, piquing interest, like the photographs that hung on walls, oil lamps that took direct fuel rather than push buttons or knobs, or slanted cursive in journals, all of these things were character, faded, inconsistent and voiceless memories of what once was. To Caspian, this life was far more recognizable for the most part, but he did find he missed the running water bit. Later he would make that a project, as it would be a larger undertaking, to make a decent bathroom attached to the house, and very well insulated nook that would work to keep food cool inside the big icebox for longer. Alright, that was two larger projects, but they were for _later_ , which was a word that repeated in his mind for hours on end some days.

The kitchen was operable, the rooftop metal rain barrel that provided water for the sink had been cleaned and attached once again, one bedroom was fully comfortable, a second on the way to being so, and the sitting room wasn’t a disgrace to invite guests in for a cup of tea. There was a room between kitchen and sitting room that was meant for dining, but he thought it would be better served as more of a work area, with a smaller table to eat at instead. Susan had mentioned she wanted space for sewing and mending, and he wanted some place to draw, perhaps a bit of water colours - what with the large dining area, it would be a better use of that space all around. No matter if they had a child or two later on, it would still provide enough space for all that to take place.

Caspian checked the batch of soup as it simmer-plopped to itself, wild onions, garlic, leeks, herbs, and various tubers he had pulled flavoured the slowly reducing meal. Bread made of coarsely ground grains that he had added many chunks of fruit to the dough, folding them in so they wouldn’t be squashed, added its counterpoint to the soup. Smells of both filled the house, a lengthy wafting tendril of enticing flavour, tantalizing and tempting as it floated by. 

Susan popped by, breathing deep, but it wasn’t the soup’s direction she was aiming, in fact she had drifted closer to him, cheek against his bicep, “Oh that does smell good, Caspian.”

“And look, I have managed to not utterly fail in this modern kitchen,” poking fun at himself. “The world has not come to an end.”

Basket on her hip, Susan shook her head, pressing a quick kiss to his arm since it was closer than his cheek, “Not that modern. Nothing’s electric! Oh but I do miss an electric refrigerator instead of an icebox. Or a flush commode...” A little, longing sigh, “Or a tub with hot water...”

“No reason we could not have those,” Caspian stopped his checking and stirring, covering the pot in favour of wrapping his arms around her. “Certainly there must be someone in town who could teach me how to put in some of the more unfamiliar things, but running water, that I can do, I just need some pipes, tanks and tools.”

“Oh a few, yes, but electricity hasn’t been run out here yet, Caspian,” Susan explained. “It may be years before it gets that far. Why, they don’t even have a shared phone line outside of town for many folks yet.” She looked about, “The Smythes were more updated than many, except they don’t really have a bath, which I thought everyone had _something_ like one by now in the last seventy years... But - a gas stove? If we checked half the homes around, we’d be seeing wood for most. And the icebox is huge! Then there’s the two heaters, and the big cast iron stove instead of a fireplace - this little cottage is certainly more modern than many country ones in this parish. Inside town it’s different, there’ll be those with electric, or running gas lines, instead of a little propane tank hooked up. There’s nothing wrong with all that, it’s just a little bit more complicated than I’m used to.”

Leaning down to kiss her, “Nothing for it then, I will put in a full bath, full running water, with the water tank placed so that either the woodstove for the house or an outdoor one, heats the water in winter, and the sunny times, the water shall be provided by one of those pipe coils that absorb the light.” Firmly, “This is our home, and it should be comfortable in whatever way we see fit.” 

Her expression went very soft, a sweet smile on her face, “Caspian, I’m not complaining...”

“I know,” husky, becoming distracted by her mouth - it needed a few more kisses, definitely.

Sweet starlit sea air, tea, and herself, that was the taste of Susan’s mouth, flooding his own when her tongue swept in. Parted lips and Caspian’s entire world narrowed down to that touch, the weight of her in his arms, the comfortably worn smooth fabric of her polkadot splattered yellow dress that spread along her back under his hands. The thud of the laundry basket was a quiet basso thump on the flagstone flooring of the kitchen, and Susan was twisting, pressing closer, her hands sneaking under his loose, untucked shirt. Sweeping palms explored the skin of his torso, heating him, and all thoughts of lunch fled from his mind. Beside his ear, Susan gasped, and he growled, mouth moving away from hers to the column of her neck, rediscovering that spot that made her squirm in his arms. Busy hands, busy-busy hands, rubbed, stroked, tugged at his back, and his knees went weak when Susan slipped one to the front, pushing beneath the belted waist of his trousers. 

Just that shock of touch had him painful with pounding blood and Caspian groaned, burying his face in Susan’s shoulder, his rangey frame hunched over her, “Susan -”

Loud calls outside, boisterous youths were heard, interrupting he and Susan’s explorations. Immediately breaking away from him, Susan was checking her hair, and Caspian suppressed his agonized moan at the loss. Since her fluster was far more easily hidden away as just rosey cheeked efforts on the cottage, she was the one to go greet the youths, and Caspian remained in the kitchen, juggling the hot baking pan with its loaf of bread from the oven. For his trouble he received a burn, but at least it caused the swelling throb betwixt his legs to be silent.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge gobs of what Caspian says to Susan, were things he had said (and a few he had opted to leave unsaid) in chapter 8's flashback/memorydream...which I have expanded on, because when this Su and Caspian start meandering into philosophical mush, they really don't like bein' cut short.
> 
> Also, there is some definite sexings in this chapter. About 45000 words of foreplay/months'-yearlong unresolved sexual tension _finally getting somewhere_. My Amnesia!Caspian is probably afraid after having blueballs for that long, they may actually fall off. And poor Su was suffering from hotflashes to put menopausal women to shame due to her own needs...

Ten  
XXX

Routine. Routine was a comforting fact of life. In the hospital ward, routine had been something Caspian used to hang on to the shreds of his sanity, his sense of self. In St. Ives, routine was different. Varied. A series of if-then statements that flowed into a list of assessments that dictated what needed to be done, should be done, could be done, and relegated to various trays in his mind as to urgency and importance. 

A week became two, and Susan began to work four of those days with Dr. Nance, making rounds, keeping files... Caspian remained behind at the cottage, there was always something in need of doing. Acres, all five of them, needed to be dealt with, and, if he let himself take a moment to look at it all, he would fall over at the enormity. Instead, he focused on a small, neat list of things, each day, making his routine. The food garden took primacy, and when cleaning things up, he had found a good sized burrow of hares. That would be a particular boon, and he set about making a hutch, the mental flow chart of importance ticking on to itself, checkmarks in his mind beside the list.

Weeks became a month, moving from late February into March, then a second one became April, and because he was always in the yard, harvesting, weeding, planting, pruning, or any of the other things, Susan made dinner. It was pleasantly bland, make do types of fare, then again, it seemed to be the English way all around. Caspian had nothing to complain about, he was just happy when she would come out, call his name to say that dinner would be done. He was most concerned about food production, and that, since the cottage was itself stable, was where his energies were thrown all day, every day, stopping only for meals and sleep.

When that month became two, ready to be born into a third, and Caspian began to breathe easier, began to look outside of the panicky processing, planting, and digging, the hammering of nails or the many other minutia. It became two months at the cottage, and he asked what errands he could run in town for her, offering to walk in with her so that they could have a stroll that was pleasant in the early morning of a time when summer would be starting soon enough. A quick kiss to her cheek as he dropped her off at the doctor’s office, and Caspian went along, checking his list of things that Susan had written for him in her beautiful bubbly cursive, the leather satchel he wore waiting to be filled with the rations and groceries he could pick up using the coupon book and the money she had handed him. There had been a few bits and pieces extra for him to have a pint and play some darts if he liked at the pub, but Caspian found himself more interested in the hardware store. At least, more interested after his stop by the postman resulted in his customary things sent by his trust, this time it also came with a cheque to be cashed.

Screens, more canning jars, and big glass jugs would be delivered that afternoon, going out with other goods that needed delivering. Ice for the icebox was paid for, and that too would come out in the afternoon. A few words here and there, then pointed to the bulletin board, and Caspian jotted down the addresses to the folks offering some chicks. Taking a moment, he also left up a notice, asking if anyone had a goat or two they were willing to part with, of any age, but preferably kids, or if there were piglets - he wasn’t particularly picky, he just requested animals for sale. Satisfied with that end of things, the grocer was next on the list. The cost of things didn’t seem too odd, but Caspian was aware his concept of value was skewed, he didn’t know the local economy. And the grocer was full of women, some of them ones he had met, but even those gave him sort of odd looks as he smiled and nodded his hellos and good-days. More than what was on the list was obtained, but not too much more, he had to carry it all home after all. But eggs and milk were high on his list of things he wished for, so didn’t dither and dicker over the cost of extra, only smiled gratefully that the extra was even available for sale.

Because he hadn’t spent all that much more than what Susan had given him, he did stop by the pub for some cider. Cider was miles and away better than tepid beer, even if the cider was _also_ room temperature, it wasn’t so...well. It seemed strange that kegs weren’t to be kept held in cool, temperature stable rooms, and that wine was virtually nonexistent too - so that left liquor or cider. Since it was lunch, there was a fairly typical bit of fish of some sort with potatoes or bread on offer, which Caspian gladly got himself a serving of. A first taste of real meat in months, no stretched fillings of this or that, and he was fairly certain he detected a bit of lard in the batch. Perhaps he stayed a bit longer than intended, and spoke with those who had been so gracious and kind, helping he and Susan with the cottage. In any event, he gently steered conversations towards who needed help with what, or if there was a property that needed checking, stating that the most pressing things had been taken care of in the home, and he was happy to pay back the community in any way available. Nothing resulted immediately, but if he took the time at least weekly to stop by, have a pint or two, lunch, and be known, running the errands like so, something would come of it eventually.

Earlier that morning, while Susan got ready for work, he had set out a few simple snares, and when he returned there was another hare. Well satisfied, Caspian began to change his routine, the answers to the unwritten list in his mind dictating what was necessary. Dinner would be ready and he could take care of anything on the first floor, keeping nose and ears ‘turned’ towards the kitchen.

While washing ripened berries he had harvested from the bushes, preparing to make jams and fruit leathers, he heard Susan from the kitchen, “Oh! Oh that smells divine,” hum-mumbling to herself, and Caspian quickly left the dining area he was using as workspace, to see her peeking into the baking cast iron pots sitting inside the oven, her bottom in the air as she bent over, “Oh...oh my...”

When he wouldn’t be fearing for her head striking the stove, Caspian leaned against the door’s lintle, arms crossed, enjoying the tugging and tucking of her hands over her rump to straighten her dress, “It is just fowl and potatoes - some onions and leeks, I suppose. There is hare slow roasting in the other pan with some beer and fennel, and a fruit bread pudding.”

Blue eyes went wide, “Caspian! Oh no, no, Caspian...that...” Susan quickly came up to him, taking his hands, squeezing, worried, “Caspian... We’re on rations, you know...”

“Yes, I do,” he agreed. “The only bit I touched was some milk and the bit of beer, but I managed to snag an extra quart of milk, and four eggs beyond what was granted by ration, and there are several small growlers of beer that while I find it rather unpalatable to drink, it does make for good soups and sauces. Everyone was on a bit about how much they cost, but I just used a little bit from my stipend that had come in the post.”

“Caspian, you -” visibly struggling to find a way to say whatever it was she needed to without scolding, “you must understand it’s not exactly easy to come by much of these things.”

Brow up, “Except the milk, eggs, beer, and lard, everything came from around us. All of the vegetables, why, even the sugar, as I found some old beets and began working on them weeks ago. And the only reason the eggs and milk had to be bought, is because we have no hens or goats.” Adding, “ _Yet_. There are some chicks for sale, and there will likely be a few kids about I am sure, I just need to finish building a chicken coop and a little shelter for the kids. The hare came from one I caught in a snare, and there is a family of them that are fattening in the hutch. As for the partridge,” here he couldn’t help a snort, “I carry a sling with me everywhere for a reason. Even crow or pigeon tastes good in a pie.” Pulling her in closer, “Everything provided is bounty around us, or bounty I will be obtaining.” The round of her chin was in his sternum as she looked up at him, and Caspian poured conviction into his words, arms holding her securely, “Job prospects, I may have little or none. There may be no coin to my name, or there may be some, it matters not. For so long as I have breath in my body, you will never have to fear hunger, going to sleep unsheltered, or being cold, and I will keep you safe from any harm with every fiber of my being.”

Susan squeezed him, body shifting as she bounced up on toes, and Caspian quickly complied with her unspoken request for a kiss. “You’re one of a kind, Caspian, you know that, don’t you? Don’t push yourself too hard, we’ll be alright.”

“I know -”

She bounced up, quieting him with another kiss, and her next words made his pulse spike, “No one’s ever made me dinner since I was a girl or dining out, you know, now shush, we’ll take it easy tonight, maybe go to bed _early_.”

XXX

St. Ives’ climate was warm, at least far warmer than what Caspian had been exposed to at the hospital, and this resulted in him striping off his shirt during the day frequently enough as he worked. And at night...it depended. The second bedroom they had cleared was probably, originally, a storage room on the first floor, or one meant for an elderly relative who couldn’t take the stairs any longer. What that resulted in, was a much cooler room, and was thus more comfortable for him at least. Susan was generally wearing more than their first time sleeping together, as was he, but while the temperatures rose slightly and they shed blankets, folding them and packing them away neatly in the same boxes, crates, and chests they had been found in, it still wasn’t enough for her it seemed. Caspian found the temperature to be comfortably mild, yes, but not toss-and-turn-panting-and-sweating as Susan seemed to. Several times a night Caspian would awaken to Susan unpleasantly sticky, and it was only late _May_ \- the weather would be warming by a great deal before it would cool again. 

He had taken to keeping the basin to the bedroom’s washstand, close to the bed with a bit of water in it, so he could dampen a cloth and do a quick wipe down of Susan’s brow, neck, arms, and feet. She would whine awake, pant a few times, writhing a few moments, before returning to her restless sleep. As the temperatures maintained, the first harvest of summer squash, and more of the wild grown beets, carrots, whatever spinach and lettuce he had missed or could find was brought in, while the other plants were doing their flowering and swelling, Susan had gotten to a point that Caspian gave up. There wasn’t anything he could do to make the room cooler, all he could do, he had, so he willingly suffered through his broken sleep to at least grant her a few moments of respite from the heat, repeating the motions for at least five minutes each time when doing the cooling wipe downs. She needed her rest more than he did, for her day’s schedule was more rigid than his own, and if he was overly tired, _he_ could always take a nap, which was a luxury she didn’t have.

It no doubt didn’t help that they gravitated towards one another in their sleep in spite of Susan’s plight, and when he would wake to her fussing, it was generally with her wrapped tight in his arms, their bodies separated by sleepware and a sheet. The grinding and panting under most circumstances would have Caspian wondering if perhaps she was suffering from unmet sexual needs. (Much the same way he was, but he usually took matters into his own hands since they hadn’t gone any further than heavy petting and a bit of rolling about. Always, at least once, but sometimes, far more often than that, with four times being the limit he had been forced to a few times. Probably an embarrassing situation by most outsiders’ estimations, as a few months of marriage meant that there had been _something_ going on in the bed... Or so he surmised. Unless the English were really and truly _that_ repressed. However, Caspian wouldn’t press and would happily follow her lead...no matter how much his body ached at times.) 

Again, awakening in the middle of the night, Susan was twisting, rolling, and Caspian carefully extricated himself from her hold and the bed. Shuffling feet into slippers, he went to the icebox, where one of the smaller carafes with water had been placed, and he took a long drink straight from it. The water was cool and pleasant, and a bit of splashing on another small towel, he returned to their room after replacing the pitcher. It wouldn’t do for the water he usually used as a treat after hours at work on the property, to become needlessly warm. 

Returning to Susan, Caspian sat on the edge of the bed, cool cloth in hand, and began his customary, oft repeated attempt at soothing her, his voice soft, as he brushed aside the tightly braided mass of sable hair. It was a song that he had crooned quietly fairly often, but didn’t really sing, because he, frankly, couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket if his life depended upon it. Like most things, it was relegated to knowledge he possessed, but not its origin. However the sound of his voice as he bathed the heat from the back of her neck as she rolled away from him, had Susan sighing. A little shiver came over her as the cool slipped from her neck, to the bit of chest shown by the neckline of her nightgown, and Caspian pressed a brief kiss to her shoulder. 

Fingers were in his hair, tugging, reaching back for him, “Caspian.”

He attempted to soothe her, running the cloth over her arm once again, “Shh. I am here, my Susan.”

He wasn’t certain how it happened, but his back was to the mattress, his hands gripping her, as Susan kissed him breathless, her chest draped over his, elbows propped on the bed. Maybe it had been when he reached under the sheet that was over her, to stroke his wife’s thighs with the damp cloth? It was all rather...rapid, or more like he wasn’t thinking all that clearly and his mind had gone staticy like one of those radios when it couldn’t find the channel. Caspian released a heartfelt groan, a hand moving to cup her head, but he felt thwarted, frustrated by her businesslike braid. All he wanted, for so damnably long, was to bury his fingers in her hair, and it was as though it was a desire that must be denied at every flaming turn! Before work, her hair had to be professional and unmussed, when she returned from work, they were sedate yet playful in their touches - but her hair was almost always still pinned this way and that, and she would tap his hands if he began to mess it up too much...and as for their time _in bed_? When she would don her nightdress, she would also braid away her hair, so that meant no chance at all for him to feel the luxurious tangle spilling over his fingers. 

It was torture. Maddening, awful torture. Quite cruel, yes, indeed, and Caspian had _no idea_ how she wasn’t tearing her own hair out with the need to share their marriage bed in that way when he thought he would die without further connection.

Actually, no, all of it was absolute insanity. The hair being all bound up and prim was just a symbol of stymied desire and patience he wanted no part of anymore, yet maintained for her sake. So it was with a whine he forced his hand from the back of her head with his urging and plea to have more, instead letting his fingers trail down her cheek, over a shoulder and to her own hand which was clutching at his own dark locks. 

Slick tongue and full lips, her body tight to him like so, Caspian didn’t doubt her desire for him. But when she would pull away, time after time, clearly so very aroused, he found himself momentarily doubting what on earth was expected of him. He did his best to be patient, to not show how frustrating it was, and, well, how...how much it felt like a rejection when she pulled away so often, when there was no reason for interruption that he could discern. When he shouldn’t be thinking or worrying at all, he was kissing her, holding her, starving for Susan like a breath of air after being trapped in a box, and was stuck in half-crazed skittering fears. Was it a rejection of him? Or her desire? Or of her preexisting knowledge of the carnal? Or maybe it was a fear that it would be too much more than what she had had before...or even worse, a let down to whatever had been built up between them for so long? Or that any performance on his part would be an urgent flurry that culminated in the fires in their blood dampening down to disappointment?

And like the other times, Susan broke free, panting, and Caspian squeezed her hand in his hair, his voice barely intelligible, “Please, Susan. Please, let me -” the fingers that gripped the small of her back moved to her bound hair, and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded, “- let me love you, Susan, let me love my wife.” Against him, she shuddered, and he pressed, “Let me see and love my Susan, my Susan Pevensie, my wife, my light, the woman whose name I carry with joy.”

“Please, oh, god Caspian,” she choked into the side of his neck, her breath scalding hot, fingers spasming against his scalp, “ _please_ don’t say it if you’re not - I can’t, I need...”

There was no help for it, Caspian pulled away, it hurt like blazing ice all over him, but he couldn’t speak for fear he would be unmanned and beg if he attempted to say he merely wanted to see her in their bed clearly, it was ice so cold and painful it was hot, but he needed - _needed_ \- to see her. Matches were fumbled, then the lamp, even as the soft sound of her pained gasp stabbed fresh at him because he had moved away from her, but he _needed_ to **see**. Light blossomed however, and Caspian was quickly scooting closer to her, hands shaking as he went to her bound hair, even though Susan had rolled onto her side, facing away from him. Her long fingers were clenched in the sheet, her legs drawn up tight to herself, and her breathing was ragged, containing and repressing, drawing herself into the smallest shape possible to contain her ardent need.

Slipping his fingers through her gradually loosening braid, “Susan, let me see you. May I please know you?” Caspian’s words were a request, his touch was certain, but it was also trembling, he was afraid he would overstep, push her too far, and she would pull away from him completely until she deemed him in control of himself. Or something. Leaning down over her as he began to spread her chestnut waves, “Anything you would allow me, I would want, and count myself blessed. If you would allow me to know you, Susan Pevensie, there is no greater wonder in any world, in any life. While I may not have the same gift to give, nor even the right to ask nor receive, I beg this of you. You already hold all that I am, but I would give of myself again and again, if you would but allow me to.” Pressing his lips to the hint of bare shoulder as he tugged her nightdress to the side enough to reveal a sliver of her gently freckled skin to his gaze, “You are the light that makes me a man, your guidance, your encouragement -” each statement was accompanied by another kiss, each one more open mouthed than the one before as he made his way to whisper in her ear, “- you are the only real, and true and right thing, right person, in the world that I can see. You bolster me and show me the way when I would be crushed otherwise, I am yours.”

Susan was shaking under his touch, face twisting to press in the pillow, hiding from him, “Why? Why would you want to see someone so...so...” Caspian’s body was afire, but so was hers from the heat radiating, even as she clutched at her need, reining it in, granting it no quarter. “You’ll be disappointed by me, my wants, everything, you’ll be disappointed Caspian.”

Coarse laughter, soft, strangled, issued from his throat, gently incredulous, “Oh Susan, you have not paid attention, then, have you?” Firmly he grasped her shoulders so that he could make her at least lay back to look at him, and under few circumstances would he use more than a caress to urge her one way or another. This was one of those instances where he must. “I was nothing but a drifting shadow in this bleak world, what little of my actual self remained was slipping away, and if you had not arrived to shine light, grant colour, solidness, and empathy into a place I could at least orbit, there would be nothing at all of me here. Not a shadow, not even a memory, just a few documents, and even those would be discarded after awhile. For that alone, I would follow you to the ends of any world you could describe, for granting me life. Time and time again, Susan, you have been my salvation, and I only -” he paused, hanging his head, jaw firming on his shame before he made himself meet her own confused, guilty gaze, “- and I only wish that I could be anything remotely close to that for you. I need you, Susan, but you...you do not need me, Susan, yet you still allow me to bask in your light, guiding me forward, and I move forward with my every prayer being that I reach you in time to ensure that light is never snuffed, that I am even worthy to be touched and filled so, and I struggle to reflect and mirror even fragments of what you give so willingly. How could I ever be disappointed other than shamed by rejection of the only person that gives me faith no matter how aware that what I am able to bring to the table is nothing approaching what you grant?”

Her chin tensed and shook, full mouth calling him as she struggled, “You are...you are a very strange man, Caspian, one I’m very afraid I need and want, but I’m... You’re just so...confusing. So very dear to me, but -” Caspian listened, unable to see anything outside of her, his fingers tugging and smoothing her hair into wild disarray over her pillow, her voice was soft, “- but sometimes you’re so familiar, others, I don’t know you at all, and yet I need you so, can’t think much farther beyond you more times than I can count, no matter that I’m not much of a guiding light, that you’re left to rely upon whatever I’ve got left is...”

With a shake of his head, Caspian tasted her lips once more. He would show her then, he would show her and maybe, as he did so, proving himself in this particular arena, she would finally believe the truth, that he was only disappointed when their closeness was curtailed, or when she refused herself - yes! _That_ , that was when he was disappointed, that she would deny herself so. It was what drove him to distraction, madness and frustration even, like she felt it was best to punish herself (even though it wound up both of them suffering) for some reason. She should take of him anything and everything she wanted, for it was gladly given, shared, so that it was not taking, but acceptance blending and joining with reciprocation. That Susan was hesitant in spite of her overt desire, the hot flush and fever bright eyes, the swelling of her lips and the licking of them, and even more, as he tugged aside the sheet, running his palm over the outside of her thigh - that scent of hot moisture between her thighs, that thick and damp, salted musk, it was more than the brief whiff he had caught time to time after their oft-halted explorations. Susan watched him, wanting, but wary, not of harm - or he certainly hoped fear wasn’t part of it - stiff, unable to fully relax. Yet she wanted to, Caspian could tell that much with the shifting of her thighs as he continued stroking from her knee to deep under the hem of her thin, ancient beige nightgown. 

Body, will, mind, and heart were certainly vying for which would make the night’s decision. Susan’s armistice was a lack of acting one way or the other for the moment, no matter how the pulse in the column of her throat throbbed, or how brightly her skin flushed. Christmas good humour came to him, and Caspian found a chuckle, another shake of his head, as he kissed her, forestalling any hurt at his mirth. Experience was supposed to _prevent_ laying stiff as a board. 

Breaking free far enough only to kiss the dimple of her chin, the apples of her cheeks, the line of her jaw, “You worry over disappointing me, sadly you may be the one disappointed but I will strive all the harder, to show you that you may be at peace with me.” _And not stiff as a board, this is very not you, this much I have read in your manner. But it is the you of the moment, and that we are here is enough._ More than happy to take a few self-deprecating jabs at himself if it may cause Susan to return to her general self, or at least make her smile, “If I dare to disappoint the first time, then the second, third, or however many times it is necessary to continue to gain further proficiency until I am at the very least _passable_ \- not that I would settle for less than have my skills be satisfying, striving towards excellence would be better on my part however, as that is the goal of all gentlemen - excellence in every endeavour...” He trailed off absentmindedly, then smiled, “There is the rest of the night, the morning, the day, afternoon, evening, and all of tomorrow night to at least get a start on that practice.”

That gained him a surprised little laugh, and he knew her own thoughts had danced backwards, into winter silliness, “I’ve it on good authority that practice is necessary to be good at anything. I suppose then if we practice enough, then it’ll just be the old matrons of morality that will be the ones disappointed in either of us.”

Different tastes and textures seared Caspian’s lips when he tasted Susan’s skin. And his hands ached, thrumming, tingling, sending skittering information from every sweep of his fingers, palms, the backs of his hands, his _wrists_ over every available inch of Susan under him as he slowly, achingly slow, familiarized himself with her nudity. A bit of a flash here and there caught over his shoulder or through lashes some mornings, imagery that had fueled him and aided his hand in taking the edge off of his need - that was all he had seen before. Now she lay in their bed, and if Caspian let himself even briefly touch upon the concept of _marriage bed_ and _wife_ or _his_ in any sort of conjunction, he would no doubt make an idiot of himself by forgetting everything but the gnawing pit of hunger that had been ignored for so long. Instead, he shoved those - very worthy, and somehow utterly, inarguably, undeniably arousing - thoughts aside for the moment. His focus was on an odd scar near her hip as he had massaged his way up, which meant it received the caress of his fingers, exploring the little dent, his mouth following, the hint of her talcum powder not anything too intrusive. Honeysuckle had disappeared at some point, replaced by a tiny and rare daub of midnight deep attar of roses and night blooming jasmine that was naturally like a sweetened honey to the nose, rather than alcohol and synthetic. Caspian didn’t know when that had appeared, he didn’t care, it wasn’t more than a dot somewhere she had touched herself with that scent, so it was neither powerful nor cloying, instead, mixing with the truth of her flesh, making for a whispered secret smell he would hunt down on her body. 

When those long fingers that could soothe him, their bit of callus on them from honest work and frequent handwashing, rubbed against his temples, then through his hair, short nails pricking his scalp, Caspian nipped at her waist just hard enough to elicit a scrunch of digits tight and a sharply indrawn breath. Caspian turned the patience that had gotten him through plenty in his life to the task of exploration, actual exploration, so that by the time Susan had begun to urge him this or that way, he had found the ticklish spot on the side of her left knee, felt her nipples harden and relax several times over when bathed in the moist heat of his mouth, massaged the backs of her thighs as she had rolled over with a laugh, seeking to escape this or that bit of touch that was too intense to the point it was leaving her shivery. By that time her thighs were spreading, beckoning him to taste more, he had measured her ankles with the length of his fingers forming a temporary anklet. By the time springy hairs met his cheek in a brief rub like any cat seeking to spread scent (except unlike the feline, he was seeking to be marked), her limbs had become loose and tense with eager anticipation rather than anxiety. And by the time he _finally_ tasted her, she was squirming from the eternity of kisses spread from navel to mid thigh. This would be his first memory of shared flesh, and he refused to rush (though if she had begun to beg him or taken over, he would have been content to comply). Salt and softly bitter in some spots, others were raw and sodden with her arousal, and Caspian was as thorough in that long greeting with her sex as he had been in his other examinations of her form. Tugging his thoughts from the way her back had felt seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour or two ago as he had mapped its curves and the muscles there, he determined that those weren’t good thoughts to keep his pace at a measured savouring. Twitches under his palm from her belly as he rolled his tongue over and in and out, he had to shift his grip as Susan’s pleased writhing under the ministrations of his mouth on her sex became something of a hindrance to driving her with inexorable purpose to her peak. 

Everything had been meant to hopefully show her something, not that Caspian was thinking cogently by that point, but he was also grateful that he had settled into that languorous rhythm that allowed him to keep his own needs in check. Hip to hip, to indent of waist, to warm, soft, round breasts that rose and fell, shaking faintly with each of her gradually steadying breaths, his path had more purpose than the contented meandering build of earlier. Finally, blessed miracle it was, his hands were wending their way into _her_ hair as they slowly tugged and pulled one another to sit up, the chestnut waves having gone messy, to kinked ringlets that were a waterfall down the length of his forearms. Fingertips dug into the meat of his biceps, quickly moving to his chest as Susan’s legs spread, draping over his which framed her rump on the mattress, the length of them cocked with his knees up. A hiss interrupted the sharing taste of her release on his lips and tongue, and Caspian caught a hint of a smile playing about Susan’s mouth while her fingers alternately walked, dragged, and raked up and down the insides of his still clothed thighs to his stomach and sides. When she dug her thumbs in to draw the tented fabric tight, he couldn’t keep watching the entrancing dance or he was fairly sure he would start howling. Or whimpering pathetically - it was a bit of a draw between the two potential reactions.

Struggling to keep his breathing even, Caspian dipped his forehead to rest against Susan’s, swallowing thickly between kisses pressed swiftly to his mouth as Susan watched him. A slip and several of her fingers were inside the waistband of the trousers he tended to wear to bed, adjusting his manhood, her touch certain but just as his voice had been thick earlier so was hers as she asked, “Do you want to keep these on still?”

Releasing a breathless laugh, “I am all yours, you decide.” With a nuzzle before he kissed her, murmuring, “But no, not particularly.”

“Then they need to be off, Caspian,” her touch was light and undemanding as she cupped him through the material. “You need them off.”

Need? Possibly. Probably even. Wanted, most definitely. Whether...no, no thinking, Caspian wouldn’t muck _that_ bit up. 

Carefully shifting, legs untangling enough for him to go to his knees, Caspian didn’t free his hands from her locks, in favour of massaging her scalp as he brushed his face over hers, his mouth sampling hers, then the corner of her jaw the one that made her - _Yes, that one_. If he was incautious, Susan would be covered in little bruising blooms in rather visible spots, but the corner of her jaw had her hand squeezing his cock in a most promising way. Now, if only she would assist with the removal of his pants...or at least in shoving them down, because he _did not_ want to stop tracing the lines of her skull, the back of her neck, the tendons of her throat with his thumbs, directing her head to tilt this way or that so he could fully taste every delicate space there. A breathy sigh had Susan’s head lolling back completely, chin up and he found another spot, a new one, right over where jaw and windpipe converged, a lick there had her whole throat vibrating on a hum.

What came after was slow at first, and Caspian knew as soon as his hips fit to hers, her fingers guiding him in, the fact that he had _tried_ to keep his gaze on her was something to be proud of he supposed. But those initial moments of adjustment, of complete embrace, Caspian couldn’t tell if his eyes had rolled back in his skull or if he had scrunched his eyes closed at the intensity. An intensity that left him flexing against the subtle rocking of her hips under his and his head dropping to her shoulder, tucking into the side of her throat, because for a terrifying moment, he thought he would lose himself before even getting started. How long did he lunge and grind with a pace as close to the one he had used when navigating the swells and rounds of Susan’s body as he could manage? He lost track, focus narrowing down to the way Susan’s back bowed from their bed when he filled her and struck her channel just so, which left him fighting to not growl proprietarily as, when he managed to consistently find that spot, her whole body shivered around him from head to toe, it almost - many, many times repeated - _almost_ had him on the verge of crying out and closing his eyes when all he wanted to was to see. Under him, Susan strained, thighs tight around his or his hips, shifting up and spreading open then clamping around him once more, and when she began to sob her release, Caspian tangled a fist in her hair, tipping her face so he could watch every flicker, seeing her, watching her every little microspasm.

And when her limbs were a mess, flailing around him, his wife’s body thrashing and going utterly wrung out limp for moments filled with great gasping lungfuls of air, her every attempt at focusing on him failing as he pressed in once more, which had left her finally nothing but babbling and biting his shoulder, panting, coiled tight and clinging. He couldn’t think beyond watching her like that, and when he finally allowed her nails nipping at his ass as she clutched him to her, to spur him to greater speed, it was only as Caspian plaintively groaned his desperate need to her that he realized Susan made everything too sharply focused, too good, too perfect, for him right then to fall off the precipice on his own. He just couldn’t, no matter what adjustment of angle, it had Caspian ready to be frantic, the muscles of his back burned with exhaustion, his abdomen was convinced a horse or mule had kicked him, and strangely, his normally powerful and uncomplaining wrists were rather unhappy, but he couldn’t stop it was too much, too good. 

With a strength he hadn’t felt her exert in lifetimes and it had only been once meant to haul him down a hall, Susan had him rolled, her creamy body hovering over his far darker one, the lamp he had lit earlier revealed her well loved body, its sweat, flush, and soft glow. And then she was rocking down onto him, and Caspian’s own back arched, his hands reaching for her greedily, forgetting he’d been unable to attain completion. And how she rode him, oh if he had thought he had been lost to watching her before, now it was the vision of her wild, swaying breasts, and hair in utter, complete, disarray as she arched to change angles, her own hands went to grasp and tug at her scalp while he could only hang onto her powerfully churning hips and then Caspian was gone. Everything was drawn up in that slam to the top of perfection and the equally rapid crash into reality _and_ perfection, the bliss of it left him shuddering as he clung to her waist, her hips, her thighs, anything he could take hold of as she moaned, wanton and desperate to pull him along with her. _This_ was what she had been wary to share, to let him see, and Caspian was only in awe, hunger, definitely a bit of pride in there that he either caused her wildness or was allowed to _see_ it, share it, be _present_ for it. Fingers dragged, clamping, squeezing and if it had been her nails, Caspian would have been well marked, as she let out a broken keen before collapsing forward on him, into the cradle of his arms, each roll of Susan’s hips trying to milk more from him, no matter how spent he was.

Catching his breath, Caspian began trying to make some sense of the mass of her tangled hair, the most idiotic grin likely plastered on his face, while doing his best to also seek out her hiding face, to kiss her, but she was tucking her hot cheeks into his shoulder, making it rather difficult. “Mmn, yes, much better.”

Susan gave an embarrassed glance after a moment, “I’m sorry I...umn...sort of...lost it.”

Halfheartedly trying to kick the blankets to where he could reach without dislodging Susan from her partially slumped, partially flopped perch on him, one arm tight around her, the other reaching for an edge of blanket, but he finally gave up. Giving his lady wife a good look, cupping her cheek, “All of you, Susan, that is who I married, and whom I love. Wild, sweet, shy, whatever you, you wish to be when we lay with one another, so long as you are Susan, that is who I am here for. No other, just you, Susan Pevensie and however much you are willing to share or show me in any facet or situation, I will love all of you. There is absolutely no need to fear or deny either of us our natures..” 

That light was in her eyes again, that special one, a little smile playing over her face as she arched over him, “You are a very strange man, Caspian. I don’t know if I love you for it, or in spite of it, but I do.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh this one's a little darker, isn't it? Oops.

Eleven  
XXX

He couldn’t help it, truly he couldn’t. Caspian’s weekly day inside town running errands or going to the pub for a few _brief_ hours to socialize with others, became a comforting part of his routine. A slight, sideways shift, in his routine. It was a day where he didn’t let himself do much work, and would instead canvas the town, learning its small streets, smiling and nodding at all he saw. It was just...something he did. And when it was time to go to the grocer, he would often find himself making small talk with the wives, sisters and daughters of whomever happened to be there at the same time as himself. To Caspian this was what politeness and charm was about, it took a few times for the apparent novelty of a man chatting so easily with them to wear off, and for them to open up, but this was how he was to learn them and for them, to learn him. Nice, reliable, friendly, good to brighten a day, neighbour...all towns, all groups, need such gentle day to day diplomacy. 

It was at the grocer or the other little shops, standing around for a few minutes speaking with the women, that he would find out things that the men of the parish at the pub wouldn’t tell him. Who was with child, who was having a difficulty with such and so temperamental or rebellious offspring, whose baby had colic, so on, so forth. These were things Caspian understood, and found that while he frequently did have a bit of advice (if it was requested) that often, these women just wanted someone to talk to about those normal, day to day trials. Really, it wasn’t so different than the men at the pub, who, oddly enough, hemmed and hawed, dancing around their problems and required prying out with crowbars and a team of horses to find out what was bothering them. Funny, women were frequently accused of being oblique, yet those in St Ives tended to come right out about a problem, while the men who oft lamented the fact that women tended to not speak straight...were the ones Caspian found to actually need a lesson in plain speech.

It had started with Miss Maggie’s husband mucking up a bit of household repair. Caspian, being how he was, without thought, showed up the next weekday at her abode, happy to make the repair, which was done swiftly and with ease in spite of the startled look the woman had given him, and he no doubt would have to hear about what was appropriate from Susan, and that a married man entering the abode of a woman (married or not), was generally on the ‘not appropriate’ list. But if Caspian wished to fill the position he had volunteered himself for basically, then folks had to just get used to him coming and going, with any fears of his potential inappropriateness fading away. Exposure was the best way to get people numb in those cases, so it’s exactly what he did. Besides Miss Maggie’s repair was it was just an hour’s worth of work, no actual trouble for him at all. He had been glad to assist, and refused her offer of tea or lunch, mostly because he had a pleasant dinner planned that he needed to prepare for Susan, and didn’t want to waste too much time helping Miss Maggie any further. (Though, it really couldn’t be stressed enough, he was pleased to contribute to the community’s benefit, even in this small way, it was just that he still had his own responsibilities and duties to see to. That, and as outgoing as he seemed, Caspian had found he very easily became ‘people-ed out’ as Susan had described it.) 

Then there was Mrs. Henrys with the leak in her roof. That was seen to as soon as he heard of it, high tailing it back home to drop off his items from the grocer and to pick up his tools, before arriving at her home, already putting a ladder up to begin the surface inspection of the roof, so that when she actually got there, he would have at least some idea on one end of how things were. Quickly a list of extra things to do wound up part of his week, usually two things a day. Something for a wife in need within the community (and it did break his heart when Mrs. Cunnack was revealed to be a recentish widow, and he did wind up spending several hours there making repairs, since the middle-aged woman’s husband was no longer there to help, what with being quite dead) and then there was also his favours and labours to solve whatever problem the men of the pub had griped about recently. Broken down fences, a gate that didn’t work right, a coop that couldn’t keep the foxes out, a doe, a cow or whatnot, that wasn’t responding properly to general home veterinary care... Where once he had spent eight to twelve hours working on their home, he now only worked five to six. But it was summer, so that wasn’t _too_ bad...he still managed to get everything vital done, the cleaning, the cooking, the care of the three acres he had planted out. It was just that the improvements he had so desired to implement for Susan’s happiness in the home, those began to fall a bit by the wayside. _Not_ because he had lost interest in them, but simply because there weren’t really enough hours in a day to do all the care of the household, go help out some of the locals, _and_ make any major improvements. 

And after a long day at work, he would often insist Susan at least relax with a book or something for a bit prior to their meal and after, before they would perhaps muck about with some of the endless boxes of things that were still left over in the home. Things like journals, pictures, awards (chiefly military ones), Caspian had consolidated, thinking perhaps the museum would care to take possession of such materials - Susan had added the Smythe family Bible to the large box, which baffled him until she showed him how genealogical and birth information for the family had been inset. (English people and their religious manuals were very strange.) Susan had encouraged his desire to have those items catalogued and added to the town’s genealogical knowledge, as, all too often, such proofs of yesteryear and individuals often rotted away before they could ever be added to the knowledge of a town’s history.

On one of the exceedingly hideous flower patterned sofas in the livingroom, Susan sat with a book, her legs tucked up to one side on the sofa, arm braced on an armrest as she quietly read. With a contented groan, Caspian, having gotten rid of his boots by the back door, went to the couch, flopping so that his legs went over one end, as his frame couldn’t actually fit on the whole thing with Susan there...however, he didn’t particularly care. He just wanted to lay his head on her partially upturned hip-thigh area, and drift to the quiet sound of their life for a bit.

Caspian could probably die a content man right where he was, especially when Susan began to absentmindedly stroke his face and hair, and he heaved a despicably happy sigh. Life was good. Tiring, but good. Simple, but wonderful. Mornings he ‘had’ to get up a bit earlier so he could help Susan unmangle whatever he had done in the night to her hair (it was the tradeoff for her no longer coming to their bed so constrained - additional prize was that she also no longer wore a nightdress, freeing him to match her invisible outfit quite happily), which was a particular level of intimacy that Caspian hadn’t ever considered. It was generally followed by her watching him raptly as he shaved, her toothbrush busy as they stood beside one another at the washbasin. A dozen little changes in behaviours, small things that had them twining closer on a difficult to pin down level... Caspian was probably so stupid and lousy with happy, that he possibly looked like one of those moving picture cartoon things with the goofy little heart flutters swimming around his head. (He had been hauled to a viewing of one of those things at the library by Susan, and it hadn’t been bad, just sort of...not very entertaining to him.)

“Caspian?” Susan’s voice broke through his syrupy reverie. 

He tilted his head back enough to look at her, “Hmn?”

“I was talking to Doryty today, and she’s a little worried about things,” inquisitive and deep blue eyes were on him, and Caspian frowned his puzzlement up at his wife. Susan took it for prompting thankfully, “Every day you’re off running from house to house like a little busy beaver, helping even when they can really do for themselves, or when someone even makes a minor complaint on this or that thing, swooping in to lend a hand. Now...” His lids couldn’t help sliding closed when she traced his nose then stroked his lids, “Now, it’s a good thing you do that, but too much of that will have the women turning to you rather than their menfolk. Which’ll upset their men. I like -” she paused, corrected, “No, I _love_ that about you, that you have these standards that you hold yourself to and share with anyone in need. But...well, you sort of...raise the bar a little high, to be honest, and you really don’t need to hold yourself to such firm standards, people will still like you anyway, and I’ll love you no matter what. And if people don’t like it when you’re not super perfect Caspian who pushes himself too hard - well, pooh on them, and I’ll put manure under their welcome matts.”

Brow beetled, Caspian pursed his lips, testing the sentiment out, “Assisting our fellows...causes problems?” It didn’t make sense so he tried out the other thing, which he, well, _also_ didn’t understand, “What bar is too high?”

Susan’s amusement was palpable and manifested with a bit of shake to her head, twinkling eyes, and a smile, “You help little old ladies cross the street, carry their groceries up to their flats, toss a ball or kick one for any kids playing, then mend everything and anything someone says isn’t quite as good as they’re used to it being or want it to be if you can manage to get your hands on it...”

Caspian felt he had to defend the things that happened in town, “Those are only on my errand day, Susan. It is the only day I go into town...”

“And then you soak up all the gossip of who’s dissatisfied and needs a few honey-do things done?” brow arching high on her forehead.

“Honeydew? The melon,” Caspian clarified, still utterly baffled as to what the problem was. “But what about melons and bars?”

“The bar - the measurement. Everyone you come in contact with, can’t help but compare those in their lives to you, because, let’s be truthful here, Caspian - you have _got_ to be the nicest person in all existence, and it’s kind of funny,” Susan laughed lightly at him. “ _They_ don’t know just how bleak you can be and only know the painfully sweet Caspian who comes by for a quick little helping hand or the utterly precious one wandering about town once a week being a cute little angel to everyone he comes across.” She tweaked his chin, “And _then_ the menfolk who don’t do the little list of ‘honey-do this for me’ things the womenfolk want done, either because they’ve not the time, skill, or desire to do them - or not gotten to them yet - that you then do for the women so affably, with a very eager to please and sweet disposition...well. The men just don’t look so good, now do they? Even the ones who are all well and good. You’re like...” He watched her search for a description then she snorted, “A unicorn. Mythical and completely not possible to be stumbled upon in such a mundane place - at least to them. _I_ think you’re the height of perfection, even when you get grouchy and sarcastic.”

Alright, all of the above was news to him. Caspian had, as far as he could remember, done his best (failing and falling prey to deep depression and maudlin thoughts but he still _tried_ to fend those bouts off) to be a polite and pleasant person. Always...not that he could remember farther back than late 1948 (not that he was entirely firm on that time either, his files had simply mentioned he was brought in around then), but that was besides the point. He still did his best to spare people his temper, and avoided sharing out any of his darker, despondent notions, except with Susan, whom he couldn’t help but confide in... That didn’t stop him from still attempting to be studious in his behaviour towards her overall though. But the very notion that being friendly to others, helpful to them, could be a source of strife or discontent from others... The English were _excruciatingly_ strange. 

A niggling part of him declared it wasn’t the English that were strange, off-kilter, not right, and quite definitely it wasn’t the English who wore any kind of mask... It was him that did. Thankfully he couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t say what that meant, or what that uncomfortable little wriggling worm of negative truly implied about him. No, he wished to be steady, reliable, Caspian, who strove to provide a loving home and environment for himself and Susan. He chose to become that, to be that, and certainly, there were times he didn’t _want_ to be the nice person, the patient person, or even the patient spouse...and of course that meant there were times he slipped up and may let a snap fly, but those were reeled in, weren’t they? 

The book was closed and Susan’s hand continued to travel over his face and head, and she twisted enough so his head and shoulders were in her lap fully, her other hand rubbing his chest. “Caspian, wasn’t it you who said we shouldn’t deny our natures? You’re not always sweetness and light, and that’s _good_. You don’t need to impress anyone, least of all me.”

Pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead, Caspian grimaced. “I will sleep on the problem and divine some solution, for the locals must like me, so that they treat you best.”

“Run the weekly errands on Wednesday, a day early, and then Thursday, help whomever you desire, but only do it one day a week, unless it’s an emergency,” came her suggestion, her thumbs finding a spot on either side of his neck that had gone tense, and dug in, rubbing firmly, her fingers fanning out over his collarbones to tap arhythmically there. “You’ll still get time with the men at the pub, and - gasp, because oh it’s ever so impolite - the women at the shops.”

Growling, still trying to thump out the irritation from his head forcefully with his hands, but it was unsuccessful other than at least shielding Susan from most of his expression, “These gender divides are absolutely asinine. The women only prattle at me, because they are desperate for a sympathetic ear, and someone who is not a rival the way they do sometimes amongst one another when there is jockeying for position, perceived slights, or directed gossip. If their men cannot fathom this, then they are not very observant, or are extremely lazy.”

A jet of breath fell over his splayed fingers, shooing his hands from their vigorous thump-rub-bash he delivered to his cranium and then lips were there, pressing fully once above each of his eyebrows. “Easy, Caspian. We can’t change that, we can only claim and build our own bits and safety.” Soothingly, “People will always have their own problems, we can’t take care of them all for them. Choose your battles, my darling, and no matter what kind it is, you know I’ll be here and support you too. Just like you do so much for me.”

XXX

_Caspian X, King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands... Titles. Just titles. For four years after Peter bested Miraz, Aslan roared the Telmarine army to breaking, and the Narnians were given their freedom - Caspian had lived up to his duties. Body broadened as the last of his growth filled out his once lanky, wiry swordsman’s body into the more robust lines he carried now, Caspian X still slumped as though he were four years younger. And when he was four years younger, he probably had the petulant posture of a sheltered prince. At twenty-six, he was a man grown, the mettle of his ruling had forged (and at times, bludgeoned when cajoling and compromise failed) the disparate Telmarines with the Narnians, into a fairly cohesive whole._

_Susan had told him that he would always have the love and friendship of the Pevensies, and he had taken it to heart. It was slim comfort, and to better keep them close, Caspian had decided to do something about it. Attributes from each of them were incorporated, until now, he was still Caspian X, but the set of his jaw was Peter’s with a voice which was the firmly measured cadence to go with it, his gaze taking in settings and judging, was Edmund’s, and the mask of hope and peace was Lucy’s. Caspian had learned the most vital lesson and aspect from Susan however - to rule, to be what his people needed, he must scoop out everything inside himself, and refill it with whatever it took to make him good enough to stand on his own as a king. She had been right, to everyone else, she had been fantasy, daydream, hearth and home, sacrificing all of her actual self, setting aside **Susan Pevensie** in favour of serving those she loved so freely. The Pevensies had each other, and Caspian had his advisors (most of them, there were days, that **Caspian** would have been only too happy to toss over a high parapet with nary a flinch, but he wasn’t really Caspian anymore) but it was still a lonesome, solitary position. _

_So, slumped in a corner bench that afforded him a glorious view of the waters and the **Dawn Treader** , Caspian cleaved to the bits of himself, collected in tatters, gathering them up and examining them. He did this with a distant, inward turned, and blazing hot gaze, all while his hands caressed a beautiful, perfect bone horn. Its dips and swells reminded him of Susan’s body, but only as a phantasm, and what little soothing tactile feedback he once had gained from it, had vanished. Likely because a faded shadow wasn’t anything when compared to the substantial that had once flowed under his calloused touch. Just as she had shown him her belief, given the gift of that, her faith, and by the Mane, even the proffered gift of her body so he had peace to calm his despair in those dark times - she had shone like a beacon so that he could see the path **she** had walked. Rather than forging his own, Caspian had driven down hers, as fast and strong as he could go, because while Queen Susan the Gentle had been a teacher, a guide, it was Susan Pevensie who he had seen and who had wanted to see him in return, and Caspian had wished to catch up to her, to walk beside her on that lonely path, so they needn’t be lonely any longer. _

_Only one problem came to mind._

_Caspian X, was **not** a deeply loving and altruistic man. Caspian X was a **Telmarine** , one who had little room in his being, his heart, his mind, for anything beyond a person or two who would be loved with savage devotion. Telmarines were well aware that being a good leader, a wise one, didn’t require that the person be good people, in fact, in all reality, being a **decent** person made leading a nightmare. (Sometimes it even made it fairly impossible.) Caspian X was simply...not up to the task, not capable of sacrificing everything for others’ sakes for the love of those others. What Caspian X **was** capable of however...was hot calculation and vicious cruelty like any other human descended from brigands and pirates. And so for four years, Caspian X had stolen bits and pieces of others, shoving them into the spaces he emptied out inside himself, carving out portions and space with the ugly determination any Telmarine was only too happy to employ (it was only odd in that it was directed at himself rather than another) and battered his psyche until those chunks grew and he became Caspian X, King of Narnia. _

_Still, Lucy and Edmund had arrived, and he smiled, played the part he had forced himself to grow into, but he was yet himself, mostly. For now. Their presence would allow him to tweak himself, reforge the insufficient parts... Except he didn’t want to, what he wanted, what he **needed** was something else. He knew then, even with the driven modifications he wrought on himself in a mad, desperate attempt to be the man Susan truly believed he could be, because she had loved him, his potential, and something else she had seen, whatever it was, to make himself remotely worthy of that level of regard from her... He knew it was ultimately futile. Not without Susan’s guiding light, instead of just its memory filling him up, because it couldn’t, no matter how tightly he grasped that memory of completion. _

_In an old pair of his trews and a tunic belted down within an inch of its life, Lucy bounced over to him, her hair had grown in the months aboard the **’Treader** , the sun and wind doing her good. Without hesitation, she was clambering and squirming into his lap, as though he were Peter and she were still smaller, an arm thrown over his shoulders...but she actually didn’t seem as excited as the initial bouncing would indicate. Caspian stretched his legs out, a good copy of one of Peter’s more welcoming and carefree smiles on his face, and waited. The Valiant Queen would say what she wanted when she was ready._

_Head on his shoulder, the youngest Narnian Queen’s gaze strayed to Susan’s horn that he had tucked against his thigh, thumb still rolling over the bell. “You really miss her, don’t you?”_

_Forcing the smile wider, “I miss all my friends, Luce.”_

_Leaning away from him enough to give him a Look, complete with one side of her mouth pursed, brow up, and head tilted just so, it was a perfect replica of Susan when she didn’t believe what she was being told. “You miss Su the most, Caspian. It’s okay to say so, you know.”_

_“And there is nothing to be done for it, Aslan has banned Susan and Peter from Narnia forever,,” a shoulder hitching. “She is in the Shadowlands, and I am here, in Narnia. The only way to see her is if I went to her Lucy. And I am a King of Narnia, one without an heir, not anything remotely like one, so it would be unconscionable and irresponsible for me to leave.”_

_...It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to make the attempt._

_She heaved a very deep, sad, utterly forlorn sigh, and Caspian felt Lucy burrow in tighter, and so he hugged her, sensing the fragility of her current state. It was muttered in a snuffly, choked up, tears and sobs over old pain being repressed sort of voice, “You wouldn’t like her much anymore. Peter got better, no more fights...but Su’s not...Su’s not really Su anymore. She’s gotten all mean and tells us we’re ‘utterly foolish, completely silly’ for talking about Narnia and Aslan.”_

_For some reason...Caspian was unsurprised. And he was very sympathetic with how Susan must feel. It was a way to blunt the anguish. Susan hadn’t completed her statement that the queen could be let go of, and could let go in turn - Caspian hadn’t needed her to complete that admission from yesteryear. Susan Pevensie couldn’t let him go, and he couldn’t let her go either, and they would not be together in this life ever again. So it meant a soul deep wound that ached and throbbed, an incomplete gaping hole, filled with chunks of the other person that struggled to grow and hopefully at least patch the wound up some. They both were holding themselves together however they could. But Lucy probably couldn’t see that. So, he sighed, cuddled her up a little closer, and plunked a kiss on her temple. And while he was at it, he should probably come up with a bedtime story, Edmund’s had had her racing, clambering all over him, crying because it was ‘skerry’, and Eustace's stories were about as fun as overcooked, plain oatmeal, left out in the sun for a day or three filled with maggots._

_“The wound will eventually heal, Luce,” he reassured her, turning her own guise upon her. “It is just one you cannot see with eyes, one that cannot be patched up or given a drop of your cordial. But the pain will abate, ease, and fade, it just takes time. Keep faith, believe in your sister’s love, just as you do in Aslan’s.”_

_...._

_They were approaching the end of the world, Caspian knew it. All around the **’Treader** , the water gave off a lovely, sweet and filling smell, and there were beautiful flowers growing up from those waters. The sun never set, and the wind was always perfect. It was almost time to see if there was enough Caspian the Telmarine left to abandon everything so that he could search out the only peace and healing for his own wounds. _

_Edmund appeared beside him at the rail, and while Caspian leaned on it with folded arms, Edmund’s back was to it, squinting to the opposite bow, elbows hooked and propped on the railing. It was a frequent position between them - at least when they weren’t sparring or duking it out over a chess set. Caspian liked that they could be quiet together, chatter wasn’t necessary. Except Edmund wasn’t there to just stand about companionably, the Just King was as aware as he was of how close their current journey was to its end._

_Taking the lead, Caspian straightened, thumb pressing to his bottom lip as he scanned the horizon, “I need you to do something for me, Edmund.”_

_“It won’t work, even if Lucy and I begged forever, He won’t let you come with us,” Edmund made a sour face._

_Brow quirking, he tossed a glance at the dark haired Pevensie, “That was not what I was going to ask of you. If I get the chance to speak to Him, then I will use my own voice, not anyone else’s.”_

_Edmund looked at him askance, measuring, “Alright, let’s hear it.”_

_“There is very little of me left, Edmund, so you likely do not have to worry about me making a fool of myself and abandoning Narnia for a chance at my own happiness,” he sighed, tired suddenly, and very drained. “So kindly please cease being so wary?” Voice dropping, hands wrapping around the carved railing, it was closer to a mutter, “Even if you find it a different kind of burdensome.”_

_“Fine, you’re not gonna make me any less nervous if you don’t just hurry up and spit it out, Caspian,” Edmund growled, shifting to face the same direction, both of them watching the starboard._

_“Corner Susan, chase her to ground, do it as many times as you have to, to make her at least listen, and no matter how much she scoffs, tell her that I got as far as I have only by walking the same routes as she did. That I did so, so that I could at least pretend she was just ahead of me, around a corner, and that I would be able to catch up.” His hands twisted and squeezed at the rail, wishing it were some physical, living and breathing thing, so he could strangle the life from it, transferring his own wounds to it and vanquishing the thing. But no, it was just a rail, dead wood, nothing more. “Tell her I love her and each breath I took was for her. Tell her...tell her I grew old and married and had a family, as it was my duty, but that I did my best to be the man she hoped I would be. Tell her...tell her that while she walked away, I never let her go in spite of what duty demanded, just as I swore to her that I would never let go, and she will know what this means. Tell her to release her pain and find the life that brings her joy with a light heart, because she has mine, and I do not want her trapped by duty anymore, I want her free. Back her into a corner where she has no choice but to hear you, Edmund. And no matter how much she tries to cut over you, silence you, tell you that it was naught but a child’s game...tell her anyway. She does not have to remember, not actively, but a piece of her will hear, I know this Edmund, just as I know no matter how much my inner self is raging and screaming at me to demand entry to your round little world, that while I may fool myself with that useless dream, I am aware that it will not come true and I am too much what I have made myself into to be so selfish.”_

_Edmund’s pity burned him as it lay heavily over Caspian like a pall as the youth listened._

_Snapping, some of himself slamming into the foreground, “ **Swear it to me, Edmund** \- you do this, and I will give up every hope of asking to have the burden of being a **good Narnian ruler** taken from me.” Teeth bared at his friend as he snarled, “It is a fair trade, is it not? Any prayer for freedom, a lifetime of duty and chains, for this one boon?”_

_Edmund slowly drew in a deep breath, “By Lion, Mane, and Breath, if I have to tie her up and gag Susan to make her listen to that, I’ll do it, but I can’t promise she will believe any of it, or even care anymore. Susan’s broken, Caspian, and no one can heal her. I’ll carry out your request, without that stupid trade...because if anything could give a glimmer of hope of getting Su back, it may be someone who can actually see her when we can’t. Which pretty much sums up you or Aslan.” The Just King looked away, “So, even if you can’t be a completely irresponsible arse, maybe you and I can still hang onto a little hope that you’re still that greedy, and forget that it’s not true.”_

_Drawing a shuddering breath, Caspian hung his head, “I will have to trust Susan’s healing to the care of her family and time. It is too late for me to break free of the path she lay out for herself, and even if it was not, even if I could win free, there is only my need to be worthy of her that remains, truly remains, that was Caspian the heir to the Telmarine throne. And that piece is not the sort to turn course. In a few more years, he will be gone, replaced fully by King Caspian of Narnia and whatever useless monikers the people lovingly tack on. An archetype, nothing more, striving to meet the standards he, as a desperate youth had laid out for himself as measures for manhood, honour and success.”_

_It would be fitting for the one person who truly loved him as himself, to have forgotten him, and strangely, Caspian was grateful for it. Let the unworthy chaff fall away and be claimed by no one, so it couldn’t hurt anyone. When he dropped Edmund, Lucy and that irritating little prat - even if he’d mellowed somewhat - Eustace off to return to their home in the Shadowlands, Caspian of Telmar would be laid to rest, and no one would be sad at his passing. Anything that followed, any rage or grief, that would be nothing but a few growing pains as the empty spots would be refilled eventually, the seeds of others planted in his husk. All he had was time..._

_Eyes swinging to the impossible silver, turquoise, and sweetest of blues that was the sky, **We still have eternity, even in the dark, the memory of the path I saw will remain, and I will find it, follow it, and a piece will still love the woman Susan Pevensie. You cannot show a man such a thing and expect him to ever stop.**_

XXX

There had been a serious delay in Pembles actually finally coming for a visit to deliver Susan’s things and Seymore’s ashes. The hospital had gone to the dogs the Englishman claimed with an utterly indignant huffing roar, a rumbling thunder in the back of his throat as he gave his report while hugging and backslapping Caspian hard enough to make him cough. And when he had come, it was with Nurse Lewis seated in the passenger seat. The visit itself had been a several day brief trip, dropping off of trunks, crates, Nurse Lewis and Susan having time to do ‘girl talk’ (Caspian thought that odd, since he was plenty happy to hear Susan speak on whatever, even her complaints about current undergarment fashion and such, he just wanted to hear her voice). However, Caspian did enjoy time spent with Pembles, even if the man loved his drink a bit much and wanted to sit down at the pub for many more hours than Caspian would generally invest in the place at once. Of course the somewhat batty Englishman hit it off with everyone that Caspian introduced him to in the common room, and Caspian found himself chain smoking after too long with too many, the press of people and the constant command to ‘drink up, drink up, man!’ forcing him to dig in his heels. It wasn’t that the alcohol made Caspian tipsy, five ciders and several whiskeys later, he barely felt any effects at all, it was just that, well, being drunk just felt useless, so trying to reach that state hadn’t made any sense. So he smoked, played darts, was drawn into a game of poker, and was cornered into being vastly more social for a longer period of consecutive hours than he thought he could ever handle.

The only fun part of that particular portion of Pembles’ visit to the pub, was the knockdown, drag out brawl that someone started. Caspian had remained out of it, watching it all with a critical eye while Pembles and Massan hooted and called out pointers... He stayed out until someone managed to knock him a good one, and then that was that, Caspian was no longer content to be on the sidelines and allow the ruckus to continue. Men of varying sizes, ages, and levels of intoxication were thrown this way and that, and out the door into the puddles and gutters, with a sort of irritated and bored ease. Busting heads and busting up such disagreements was tiresome, and by the time he was done, those who hadn’t been involved were sort of staring at him gape-mouthed, while the participants were all suddenly nursing goose eggs, black eyes, busted lips, or sitting on the sidewalk, wobbling vacantly in place. He had taken great care to not really hurt anyone because they were his neighbours and townsfolk, so there was little enough reason to do any of them harm over such minor stupidity as being full of drink and orneriness. Then, in ones and twos, as Caspian left Pembles behind at the pub for the duration so they could all blabber and yammer, Caspian forced those who had imbibed far too much and enjoyed their fracas too much as well, back to their homes, carting them as they leaned heavily, slurring and telling him he was either a no-fun arsehole or a paragon amongst men. It all went in one ear and out the other since drink and a bit of knock around tended to work loose empty declarations, be they good or bad. When he returned to the pub, finished with his self assigned task, Caspian flopped down, head on the table, ready to doze off when all he wanted was Susan’s hands running over his back and chest to bring him back to some kind of grounding. It was just too much all at once, too loud, too close, too long, and he felt overloaded, ready to fizzle out.

Later, clapping a hand over Pembles’ mouth when the man wanted to impart every blow of the night’s revelry and recount Caspian’s ‘heroics’, Caspian had merely made the man sit down, drink plenty of water, while the women looked on, amused. And when he finally crawled into bed, satisfied that their guests were well settled (and he had frowned at the silliness of the very obvious couple taking two bedrooms, but Susan had hushed him _yet again_ on that front) Susan showed her affection. And apparently some serious appreciation, which basically had left him laying back, enjoying the show and the sensation, with no expectation of further participation in light of his fatigue. That night their usual positions and roles were reversed - while Caspian was generally a living, breathing, man sized body pillow that Susan made use of, that night, Caspian slept with his face buried under one of her breasts, squeezing her tightly and growling any time she wished to budge him. Right where he was, was perfect, anywhere else wasn’t going to be correct - well, unless he had his head under the covers and used her mons as a happy pillow, but he would save that for it got cold at some point.

When Pembles and Nurse Lewis (he really should work harder to remember her first name) left, Caspian heaved a sigh of relief. Which gained him a sweet kiss and a smile from Susan, and that made it all better. Well, mostly. They still had to unpack all of the stuff Pembles had brought. Many of the Smythe items were around, but with Susan’s own personal, sentimental bric a brac having come, it was time to either move things around, incorporate, or just flat out change what was around. _If only I could sew decently, I would do **something** about the terrible upholstery! Seriously, what is it with the English and all these flower prints?_

Unrolling packed canvases he had pulled from tubes, he cocked his head, while Susan was working behind him, focused on her own bit of rummage-sorting. “A lion?” It looked as though a fairly talented child had painted it, but still, very much something that had been done with bare hands and paint. He could even see the thumbprints that made up the many layers of mane. Gesturing with it, curious, “Something you made when very little?”

Arms snaked around his waist, and he heard a hitched breath, “No. Lucy painted it. She even had a name for him, but I can’t remember what it was.”

Brow furrowing, Caspian thought perhaps it was a childhood friend, maybe a cousin? She already had two brothers, but even then, he realized with a bit of a start, he knew almost nothing about them, so...maybe a sister? “Lucy?”

Susan reached around him, a framed picture searched for, which depicted four children in school uniforms. It was the first time he had really seen anything of her life that was truly from ‘before’. Her finger touched the tallest of the group, a towheaded youth, “Peter, he wanted to go into politics.” Her own self was very obvious, standing with a sweet smile, looking utterly lovely, but very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. “Me.” Finger traveling and tracing a second youth who had a cast to his features that Caspian couldn’t decide was either depressed or deeply cynical under a mask of thoughtfulness, “Edmund. Some days he wished to be a writer, others, a priest, and once, even a mechanic.” And then the last one, oh, she looked ever so young, a tiny little girl with a pug nose and a toothy smile in spite of the picture’s overall aim to come off as formal. “Lucy. She loved stories ever so much, to play make believe, paint, and draw.” Caspian twisted, setting the lion painting down so he could pull Susan in close as she clutched the picture, “They’re all gone now. No brash Peter, starting fights or trying to dictate the rules so everyone plays fair. No Edmund finding the last hidden sweets and making smart remarks or the sound of him moving through the house in the dead of the night to be certain everything is secure. No Lucy squealing, running through the house, shouting out about whatever new adventure her imagination had come up with, always insisting it was real.”

All Caspian could do was listen and hold her, so he did, giving his presence, hoping it was enough.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: For the most part, this little bit of varying fluffy to maudlin series is really from Amnesia!Caspian’s point of view, as it should be. However, Su wished to pipe up on her thoughts about family, salvation, marriage, and healing. And y’know, the fact that, much as she loves Caspian, and accepts him as is, she feels _very_ protective of him, because she’s aware of just how very, very strange he is compared to 1950’s UK, even out in the rural area of St Ives of that time period. She would be aware that it’s a known, possible, plausible side-effect of whatever trauma he went through, for him to have sort of...fabricated this gentility he has, the manner that makes him so odd compared to standard folks, but at the same time, between them, it’s harmless and makes him feel secure, so why change it?

Twelve  
XXX

In town, from patients, and anyone she spoke with, Susan heard Caspian’s praises sung and what a ‘good boy’ he was. Sometimes it was said with a bit of envy or jealousy from a woman in their age group, or a wistful little dreamy sigh. They saw Caspian on his best behaviour, they saw him at his good times, when he was strong enough to face groups that weren’t meant to get too close. Only when he was ready to play the charmer, the sweet as cream, adorable and magnetic man - they only saw that well presented guise, and nothing more.

At the veterans’ ward, Caspian, when mentioned at all, had been a source of derision, or extreme envy, and always with a heady undercurrent of fear. People wanted what he had without understanding any of the costs for those things, wanted the constant, ‘excessive’ supply of personal items that were sent to him. They wanted a solitary room that granted some semblance of privacy. They wanted the hungry eyes of nurses on them. A body that was healthy, whole, no matter how splintered the mind (most hadn’t known about his physical scars, nor had she until the first time her hands had slipped under his shirt daringly while they kissed, even so, he was still whole physically and unimpeded by those marks). His manners, they wanted that, his abilities, his easy authority. Some, those who had the misfortune to witness it, even wanted the menace that would morph the gentle features into a mask of terrifying wrath. (And Susan had seen those expressions, usually when she was trying her best to squirm out of some contrived chance to harass her on the part of Dr. Carter. By the fact that Caspian had evaded the worst Carter had been prepared to give, she deduced that while those expressions existed and she had seen them, they would be smoothed over before the ever so dangerous ‘victim’ could catch sight of it, and the sweet face would be schooled to blandness.)

In the town, or in the ward, it was pretty much the same. A little chunk of Caspian was all they wanted to break off, a piece just for themselves, and maybe absorb whatever quality it was that made Caspian himself. They didn’t know, couldn’t know, because they wouldn’t understand...or, worse, would realize just how thin his defenses were, and would mob him, picking and choosing what bits of him they would pry loose. To suck him dry or destroy or devour, nevermind what he needed as a person.

None of them knew of the sobs that wracked his frame in his sleep sometimes as he babbled in strange tongues that weren’t Spanish, even if they sounded a bit like it. Not even Caspian knew he did that, and she wouldn’t be telling him. And even those who had seen him during or while recovering from electroshock, they hadn’t seen the real pain he had to go through afterwards. Even if they had, they wouldn't have understood what they were seeing, or even cared. 

In the end, they didn’t get to see how frenzied desperation could be calmed, soothed, by her touch, her voice, her scent. Surely someone else could have provided those for him, but they hadn’t been there, and she had been. And yet, while he looked at her with an all consuming adoration sometimes that was utterly terrifying and intimidating, Caspian somehow didn’t make her feel as though she were on a pedestal, or that her inner self was being ignored. She helped him find and reclaim reality, and he made her feel real, good, powerful in the abilities she possessed and like she could truly be a source of pure things instead of the selfish world she had sunk into for far too long. 

So, when she heard yet another person that he had somehow had contact with, say what a dear he was, Susan found she just smiled warmly and nodded. They didn’t need to know or see where he was fragile or easily wounded. As it was, he was allowing himself to be taken advantage of sometimes, even though she knew he was working on that. Yet she also knew from watching him and listening to his frequently repeated statements about his worth (and the pervasive, soul deep fear he carried about that he had none) that if she pressed upon him to _not_ push himself, give of himself, so much, that he would feel utterly useless. That had been part of why she had him do the errands initially, to get him out amongst the townsfolk, interacting with others so he wasn’t so bloody _isolated_ as he had been at the hospital and to make him feel like he was contributing enough... Susan hadn’t expected - hoped, certainly - for him to take to those errands with gusto, to making friends with every random person he met during those trips. In fact, she had thought that, like any typical man (particularly one his age) she would have had to pry him from the pub on those days. 

No, the chores, the constant stream of things he was doing, only stopping really when it was time for bed or to join her on the sofa for several hours each evening, Caspian was driven to show others - particularly her - just how useful he was. How worthy. And Susan wished he would just stop sometimes, would let the tension fall away from his shoulders, instead of his gaze skipping around a room looking for anything that hadn’t been taken care of. What woman had a husband who had dinner ready, or almost ready, when she returned from work? Had her lunch for the next day packed? Had the daily, maintenance cleaning all done for her, other than the ongoing projects to sort out what remained of the Smythes’ lives in the home? Susan didn’t dare say Caspian was _that_ involved, or she would be having to fend off every woman for three parishes in every direction from trying to nab Caspian.

It would be funny if she didn’t hear that needy, scared and shame filled note clashing in his voice, or see the beaten, distraught look in his eyes whenever he said anything about wanting to be good enough for her or make life good enough for her. 

And goodness was he touchy. Not sensitive ‘touchy’, but _tactile_. Susan couldn’t decide if he was a cat or a dog or a burr, because he had to touch things _all the time_. Her chiefly if she was within reach, and if she wasn’t, she would often find him there as fast as he could fabricate an excuse. However, that wasn’t anything that bothered her, even if he was vastly more demonstrative than was strictly acceptable in public, his broad palm slipping over some part of her if they were out together. (Normally she got around that, distracting him by simply holding his hand, or grasping his arm, otherwise one of those beautiful hands of his would be found at the small of her back, her waist, or even, unthinkingly, reaching out to touch her cheek, shoulder, hair, grasping her hip, and once, resting below her navel as he had tucked her tight against his side...) 

The absolute worst thing about Caspian though, really and truly, a problem that vexed her to the point of wanting nothing more than to stomp her foot and petulantly shout out that it simply wasn’t fair, was just how _good_ she thought he looked shirtless. Which was a state he was in almost all day, every day, when at home and working. She didn’t have any right to find him just that mind-numbingly delightful when covered in sweat, dust, dirt, or any other evidence of whatever task he was working on. Not at all! She was an adult and she shouldn’t be finding herself left dry mouthed and heating head to toe every time she saw the man. It was utterly unconscionable, completely unfair. She was a menace and incapable of reigning herself in! 

_Especially_ of late, as he had gotten down to the business of building something or other - Susan had forgotten just what he had said it was to be, too distracted by the little trickle of water that had escaped his mouth as he mumbled his answer around the cup’s lip earlier, and how that rivulet had taken a path down his throat, and...Oh no, no she really needed to get ahold of herself and stop wasting time staring at him like a hungry dog did a haunch of fresh meat. So she couldn’t remember what it was, or figure why he had an enormous trough filled with mud and other things that he was using to slap the cob addition together. Something to do with pipes, obviously, yes, what with how they were stacked neatly to one side. And barrels. Quite right. 

Staring out the second floor window as Caspian twisted to scoop up more muck and then tightly pack and form it in yet another slather, Susan fanned herself. Really the view was good, but she had sweeping to do, and some other chores, but she felt a bit helpless to resist watching the play of muscle and skin over his rangey frame while he worked. It was really quite shameful the way she was behaving at the sight of him. Linens to put away, and that just sounded so uninteresting when compared to Caspian standing, stretching, and hitching up his dark navy trousers that had fallen a little low before casually redoing his entire belt - oh yes, linens and putting them away or sweeping, compared to _that_? Very boring, tear inducing boring, and Susan couldn’t help biting her lip on a moan. 

Blinking stupidly as Caspian worked the hand pump, filling a bucket, which he then dumped water over himself and scrubbed, shaking wet hair this way and that, and - 

“Oh! That is _so not fair_! Goodness, gracious, not fair! Susan, what is _wrong_ with you, control yourself, girl!” Susan whimpered, the cleaning he was doing to himself meant it was lunchtime, and while she couldn’t see him enter their home, she _did_ watch as his trousers were tossed from vantage point unseen into the laundry trough reserved for whatever of his work clothes were dirty. 

Frantically patting herself down, Susan muttered over how she had uselessly dithered, and a lunchtime quickie wasn’t going to be had, as nice wives didn’t partake of such impropriety, or at the very least _never_ initiated it, but really, chores or watch that show? Not fair! At least he was out of sight, and Susan made herself actually rapidly put away the folded laundry and sort of sweep... Because if she went downstairs right then, she may throw Caspian against the nearest wall and beg him to take her until neither of them could stand, then she would fall upon the floor and ride him until there wasn’t anything left in either of them. So, yes, chores, and she continued muttering, biting her tongue and fanning herself as she attempted to regain some semblance of control. 

It was bad enough that they were going through condoms at an alarming rate weekly (and they were utterly unjust, most certainly, but she and Caspian both agreed that a baby at the moment wasn’t wise) but nightly sex was more than enough for nice people to partake of. That was also discounting whatever happened in the mornings whether she had to get ready for work or not, which generally involved busy hands and mouths. Really, it wasn’t very seemly for her to be that hungry and wild for him so much, and she had (foolishly) believed that once they began actually having relations, that her desire would be slaked. Well her need _hadn’t_ eased _at all_ , not one tiny little bit, because now that she knew the taste of that man’s fruit, it meant that any thought she had of him was accompanied by actual knowledge of just how very good it was with him. Oh it was maddening! 

And in no way fair to him either really, because that was one of those things Caspian was truly a very ‘nice boy’ about, easily taken advantage of when all he wanted was closeness and contact. Before bed his hands would spend hours just sliding over her, or he would look at her with those dark eyes of his, full of entreaty and ever so vulnerable as he would tug her hands to his hair, chest or shoulders, or lay face down in her lap, needing the feel of her caresses. It was just that he was so eager to please that he didn’t complain... Alright so he did want her, Susan wasn’t dim, but what sane, moral, responsible man, wanted to perform not just daily, but _multiple_ times a day? This wasn’t any sort of situation of idle fools whiling away the hours without a care, having sex until they could do no more, for hours off and on, mixing it all up with far too much drink. It seems that her libido was one thing she hadn’t been able to at least curb a little bit, but Susan did try. Poor, dear, darling Caspian, was saddled with her, and she really did try ever so hard to not be so wild and horrid as she had once been, he didn’t deserve her being such a slattern.

His voice came up from the stairwell, “Susan? Do you require a hand upstairs?”

Freezing, Susan winced as she knew if he got anywhere near a bed she may pounce upon him as a lioness would a gazelle... Collecting herself, “No, love! I’ll be right down!” 

In the kitchen where they generally took their meals, since it was just them there was no need to be more formal, Caspian had, surprisingly, not done much. Usually he was industrious to the point of annoying, yet this time he was just sitting at the table, shirtless still, in a pair of pants that were far too large so showed off the line of his back and much farther down, his attention on his drawing. He called them ‘doodles’, discounting the skill and beauty of what he created. A locket she wore carried a pair of tiny little portraits he had made her and it was vastly more skilled than just a ‘doodle’ could ever be. 

With a little sigh, she passed his hunched over form, fingers trailing over a dark bronze shoulder briefly, unable to help it, and the way his head popped up to smile at her when she did so was good enough reason to lean in and nip a fast kiss to go with the casual touch. “What would you like for lunch today?”

A soft sip from the fruit flavoured water he tended to favour (the man was keen on things that should have been well above their means, but was always making those things himself for their enjoyment), “Brought one of the cheeses in, it is a little softer and younger than I would prefer, but still smelled good. That, some fruit, and yesterday’s bread would be plenty.”

Susan went about the task, trying not to shake her head at the diversity of what Caspian brought to the home. Somehow he had wrangled several goats for a pittance of what they were worth, one of the does heavy with a kid (some of the men he had hauled home during Pembles’ visit had been a shepherd out with his sons, and the wife had been only too happy to pay them back for Caspian’s deed in preventing the little group from landing in real trouble) and now half the milk the doe made, went to their larder and the rest into the happy little kid’s belly. It was homey doing this for him, the soft whispering scratch of his pencils on paper a calming counterpoint to filling a large cutting board with their meal. A quick glance over the basket of soft, leaf greens and herbs he also foraged for frequently, and Susan hummed to herself making up a bit of that to pair with the meal... _Oh, cucumber too, divine. Now, where’s that garlicky stuff...?_

Absorbed, Susan didn’t hear the scrape of chair, or Caspian’s feet in house slippers scuff, it was just that suddenly there was a whole lot of man behind her, hands running over her waist, and his nose burying in the side of her neck for a deep breath. Giving a little start, Susan relaxed as he squeezed her in closer, and she was swamped with the smell of a still fairly sweaty (though having cleaned up mostly) Caspian, a little medicinal too because he had bought some potently strong lavender toilet soap as it had been on sale, but it mixed together nicely. It didn’t do any favours for Susan’s attempts at restraint, because while he was embracing her, it was just one of those rather sweet ones he gave her so frequently...and there was still a lot of him all wrapped around her, and Susan scolded herself to _not_ squirm or give in to the urge to rub against him, even though it would take so very little effort for a wriggle or.a hand reaching back to stroke his body to stirring.

Suddenly there was a hand slipping under her skirt, air on her thigh, and a teasing fingertip tracing where her knickers ended - and Susan yelped, hopping in his arms. Hoping her tone came out more like a reprimand than a hungry cry, “Caspian!”

But the laugh did all kinds of funny things to her belly as her husband kissed her cheek, leaning in closer, “You were at the window so long that I knew that there must be something you needed a hand with.” Susan was about to say something, except she couldn’t as long digits slid along the crotch of her underwear, “Ah-ha! That, yes, you needed assistance with these, correct? Were they troubling you, lady? Bit confining perhaps, or maybe it is how wet fabric can be a bit of an annoyance?””

“Oh dear,” blushing brightly, Susan tried to wriggle away from the light touch, not wanting him to know she had burned so hot while watching him go so innocently about his business. “Caspian, stop that, it’s nothing.”

A very serious feeling nod as it rubbed against her cheek, accompanied by a hum of agreement, “Right, it is nothing to worry over when Mrs. Pevensie finds herself in dire need as her husband plays in the mud.” Susan shuddered as Caspian sank down behind her, his hands both under her skirt, tugging her knickers down, “Here I thought a true gentleman should help a lady out when something was amiss. And even more a husband should be present to aid his wife in anything in her life. Especially when it appears to have been an unmet need...no matter how recently the need was refreshed and requires tending.” 

Gripping the counter, Susan did her best to not widen her stance as breath fell across the backs of her thighs, “We’re in the kitchen, Caspian.”

A violent walnut shell crack came from his neck, which usually happened when Caspian was settling down to work hard at something with a terrifyingly concentrated amount of focus usually, “We live _alone_ Susan. It is our kitchen, we do what we want in it. And if anyone somehow is impolite enough to call upon us, barge into our kitchen, and we happen to be enjoying the wonders of our relationship...it is not us who has done something amoral.” He snorted, “Rude as well, and I refuse to be held accountable for the broken bones the affront would earn for the interruption, thank you kindly.”

“It’s not right or fair, you know,” Susan mumbled, putting up what little defense she had left. “Respectable women don’t act like this. You deserve a good woman, Caspian, that isn’t sullied goods.”

“Who says that?” her spouse growled, the soft prickle of the morning’s unshaved stubble scrubbing the back of her leg. The answer he supplied was the only one it could be though, “Society and its sycophants? Last I checked, I was married to Susan Pevensie, who is married to myself, one Caspian Pevensie...and not society, or any hangers on. Since when do any of them live under our roof, lay in our bed? They do not belong in it! Our place, our place to be happy and fill with laughter, our refuge _from_ society, Susan, and neither of us need act or believe we are wedded to their standards, rather than ones that we design for ourselves to meet our own needs, fulfill our own dreams. Leave society out of our home _please_ my beloved.”

Chewing her lip, Susan released a slow, shuddering sigh. “And if I said that...that I wanted you whenever...? It’s not good for a wife to just...make that kind of demand, you know.” Taking a bit more of a risk, “Good wives don’t consider marching down the stairs to where their husband’s working, fall to their knees just so they can get a taste of his cock to make her last just a few hours more... It’s not appropriate or right to put that kind of pressure on a good husband.”

There was a jerk as Caspian’s head popped out beside her hip, and she caught sight of his utterly quizzical, almost aggravated, expression, “No, no I do not know that. And I reject that notion, Susan. All of them. Completely. It does not matter where I am, where we are, if you want me at all, need me at all, in any capacity, from a simple held hand or a kiss, to something like hieing off to a darkened corner for a tryst, then you should damn well let me know. Because, how else am I to be made aware that the _woman_ who shares her life with me, wishes to share her _self_ with me too? All of you, Susan, I am a very greedy man, one who wants all of you, every last bit that makes you yourself, and I am no craven fool to shy away from any aspect of you that exists. I will repeat it several times a day if necessary if that is what it takes for you to accept that.” Wet, warm heat, soft lips, a faint hint of teeth against the join of her bottom and thigh, followed by a brief nuzzle at her whole backside, his words both growling and serene, “Anything of yourself that you show me will be loved by me, Susan.” 

Difficult to believe, and yes, it was part of Caspian’s strangeness no doubt that made him so willing to more than just excuse her deviance, but to love her in spite of it. With his hands coasting over her legs, front and back, Susan chose to at least try to accept it. (Later she may forget, and maybe he would continue to chip at her resolve to be fair to him in that regard, she could only hope that it wasn’t too difficult. She could really do with a few nips of whiskey, god, she could go for a lot more than that, maybe some day there may actually be some of that play.) 

Pushing the filled cutting board away, Susan carefully stepped out of her knickers that had fallen down around her ankles, and got her own hand under her dress’ skirt to pet her sex lightly, taking the plunge, “Did you want to see?” Chewing her lip, she admitted, “If I hadn’t been holding the broom, I would have watched you with hands far busier than they were.”

“Do I wish you to let me see what you feel?” his thumbs were there, spreading her lips, and he kissed her thigh. “ _Yes_. Let me see, show me, and tell me, what you want, what you need. All of it, yes, I want to see.”

XXX

Oh no, no, no, and no. Susan couldn’t believe how her world was crashing down again. A face she didn’t want to see, one from a past she did her best to forget, a time when she hadn’t let herself care for anything but a few hours of fleeting, selfish, meaningless gaiety and false joy. _How_ had the little tosser found them? _Why_ had he come? Why couldn’t he just stay gone, the useless git, the loathsome little snot who had plagued her for so very long, no matter that he had kept his distance for years, she had still known he was there, waiting, watching, sullen.

Keith Avery, whom Susan had once found attractive enough for some unknown reason, was walking briskly towards her as she had begun to make her way to meet Caspian for a planned lunch. After six months of living with Caspian whose every movement was easy, self-assured, the difference between her brother’s former schoolmate and her husband, was as glaring as the one between white and black. It wasn’t that Keith was a bad person exactly, it was just that he only knew her one way and refused to see her in any other manner, and he knew her at her worst, most vile, and it wasn’t her frequently spread thighs that were so bad from then. Then again, there wasn’t anything she had liked all that much about him during their brief, but too long, tawdry and silly affair. (Well, she could admit, very quietly, in the privacy of her mind, that she hadn’t minded the money he spent on her to flaunt his wealth, because the sex had been miserable no matter how many times she got off and his jokes were even worse than when she let him have his head.) 

“Susan!” his voice pierced through the air, impolite in its volume, forcing her to halt her attempt at taking another route. “Susan, here now, slow down, old girl!” 

Cooly Susan turned towards him, lips pursed, “What do you want, Mister Avery?”

Everything in her was focused on her former lover. Susan just wanted him gone, to send him away, to never bother her ever again. To never have to see part of that ugly time when she had been so uncaring, distant, heartless, and worse, she had delighted in various forms of cruelty. As much as Caspian said he was certain that part of her life had stemmed from some kind of pain, and that even if it hadn’t, he didn’t care, Susan _did_. Yes, she accepted that there had been a great deal of ugliness in her, but she wanted to vanquish it, to be herself, to discard that, shed it like a snake shed its skin to reveal new growth. Keith threatened that, all of it. 

“You’re a hard girl to find, I remember when it was so much easier,” he stated, which sent a thrill of terror through her - he had been looking for her _specifically_. But how could it have been any other way, how come he had laid in wait so bloody long? Wasn’t a year and a half of her youth, when she was bitter and lacked any innocence, wasn’t everything he sucked out of her soul from then enough? _Must_ he rouse the harpy, the poisoned naga that wanted nothing more than to pick him apart and destroy him, watch him rot and jiggle pathetically?

Interrupting him as she stepped back a few paces, wanting to put as much space between them as possible, Susan made herself keep her breathing calm and steady, and reached for neutral but firm words rather than the toxic vitriol that wished to spew forth, “Well you’ve found me, and can see I’m well, now leave me be please. You need to stay in my past and _far away_ from me, Mr. Avery, I want nothing to do with you at all, never wanted anything to do with you, you were unwelcome then as you are now.”

“The hospital said you’d made off with one of the loons there, and when I did a bit of asking around, it turned out it was that frightful mad spic,” Keith said, shaking his head, false worry all over him, ignoring everything she had said like nothing had come out of her mouth at all. “Look, Sue, old girl, we had good times, you shouldn’t be stuck with that sort, he’ll only use you up. He’s dangerous, barely above a criminal, all kinds of wrong.” Keith’s hand went to take her arm, stepping in closer, as he had continued to close the distance between them, no matter how much she backed up, “Come on with me, and I’ll get you out of this mess you’ve found yourself in, fix everything right up, and we can go back to how things were, no one has to know how you were and what you did, what you did with so many -”

Susan only registered his fingers wrapping around her arm, only heard the danger and threat to the life she _loved_. The insult compounded all that. The one to her decision making, to her situation, her mind and heart, to her friend and husband, to her _family_ that the people of the parish were becoming - Susan registered all of that, and the hands of a man who _was not_ her husband, on her, and something snapped. 

She had never _truly_ struck a person in anger that she could remember, the rough slapping around that some of her lovers had partaken of was a great deal different, and Keith had been subjected to backhands of irritation when he got too grabby. But no, Susan had never punched someone so solidly that they were rocking back, a punch that was followed up by her foot slamming down on another person’s instep, and the sounds of surprised, shocked pain didn’t even startle her for some reason that she couldn’t recall. Susan was _not_ the type of girl to use violence. Or so she had thought, but all she saw when looking down at Keith, who was red faced, angry, and struggling to rise, was an impudent worm that _dared_ to press upon her person, invade her space, her life, and _threatened_ the place that accepted her. And she wanted to give him a good solid kick to go with it all, so he wouldn’t dare to get up. He had dug about and mucked in her life too many times, had tried to control her, own her, tame her, invaded every safe haven she had searched for from the time she was sixteen to nineteen. And now he was _here_ too? 

“Keith, if you _ever_ try to put hands on me again, I’ll leave you to my husband’s mercies,” voice icy. “You’re not welcome in my life, you’re unwanted, and an intruder, and that’s _final_ , you’ll get no other warning.”

“You _bitch_ ,” hands leaving his face to look at the blood that had poured from his nose and mouth, “look what you did! God, everyone should hear what a whore -”

Keith fell silent as a shadow fell over them, and Susan suppressed a wince as she realized Caspian had arrived. They had an audience too. Oh, this wasn’t good at all. The few times she had ever seen her spouse angry, were when it was defensiveness over her, and she had no idea what he may do. 

“ _Dias,_ Avery,” the informal greeting in Spanish was intoned. “Fancy seeing you here, bothering my wife. Then again, I see she has things well in hand, and that you were just leaving. Pity your stay was not to be longer, you could have shown me your boxing skills, I do believe Mrs. Pevensie said it was boxing, but it could have been brawling, the conversation was a long time ago.” As he spoke, Caspian had leaned down to help Keith up, his expression blandly friendly, but there was something flat and menacing in his gaze that even though it wasn’t directed at her, it was terrifying and she was suddenly worried about what would happen to Caspian if he let that slip the tight control he kept on himself. (It wasn’t that Susan was afraid of Caspian’s darkness, she just knew that the world didn’t look kindly at such behaviours, and he could be taken away from her for it.) “Too bad you will not ever be returning here for any reason, even though there is so much I could instruct you in. How to behave like a gentleman, a man, and a soldier, how each of these are different - it is a very arduous sort of teaching, not for the faint of heart or weak willed. Or, something easier, like manners that you are sorely in need of taking a refresher course on if you ever did learn them in the first place. I do believe Mrs. Pevensie firmly instructed you in how not to address a lady no matter how informal you, as a former suitor, feel you are entitled to be. Maybe this time it will stick before more drastic demonstrations are required.” The smile broadened as he asked, as every word had been gently projected so that nothing was to be mistaken or misheard, “Do we understand one another, Mister Avery?”

Keith wasn’t really as stupid as she always found herself thinking of him as, otherwise he really would have been a piss poor businessman, so Susan would give him that. He had ears, he had eyes, he was quite aware of everything Caspian was saying and not saying. Keith had been made a fool of quite publicly, not that there was any way for him to - safely - save face. She and Caspian hadn’t done anything illegal in marrying, or in leaving the hospital, sudden and without notice or not. Really, there wasn’t anything Keith could do other than stick around and bother people, which could easily backfire on him. He was an outsider, while she and Caspian were steadily becoming part of the local community in full. They participated and it may be years before they were fully naturalized in the community psyche, but compared to very outsider Keith, such small communities tended to close ranks and protect their residents.

Blood was spat to the side, and Keith scowled at Caspian, after glancing at her and around the street. “I suppose we do.”

“You suppose?” a thread of ice entered her husband’s tone, and Susan began to worry that he truly would do something. “You will do more than _suppose_ \- you will understand and agree, Mister Avery. If you _ever_ bother my wife or myself again, the results will not be good for you. _Do you understand_ , Mister Avery, or shall we have your repeated penchant for stalking discussed formally with the authorities? How long have you been stalking a citizen for your own amusement against all her demands that you leave her be? I am sure the constabulary would enjoy hearing all of such a tale.”

“You wouldn’t -”

“I could and would, Mister Avery, as keeping my wife safe from the likes of you, and keeping you from bothering the community we reside in, are all part of what a good man does,” easily. “Now begone, you have interrupted my wife’s life one time too many, and we have better things to do than waste further time on you,” all support was removed as Caspian stepped back, and Keith who clearly wasn’t expecting it, wobbled backwards. Arm presented to her, and Susan took it with relief, “I found a lovely view, Susan, come, lunch awaits.”

She couldn’t help the smile that found her as they walked away as she caught the way his coffee hot dark eyes looked at her with appreciation, acceptance and love, and she squeezed his arm with both of hers. “That sounds so nice, Caspian.”

A glance was cast back once towards Keith, his voice not particularly loud, but not lowered either, “While I am certain there was something there of interest, please tell me I am at least better than that.”

Susan couldn’t help a startled laugh. “Oh Caspian! Nature and God have endowed you with a great many more assets and qualities of interest than any other, never doubt that.”

That got her a quirked grin accompanied by a similarly lifted brow, his whole body giving a little swaying tilted twist towards her of flirting delight, “Oh? _Endowed_ is it? You will have to explain it to me later and I will be a rapt audience.”

Another smile, so soon after that fear, felt strange, and right. One day she would really have to tell him the nasty details, but for the moment, she was safe. Eyes only for him, Susan fell deep into the soothing warmth of his small smile that he reserved for when he was being particularly flirty, and that was plenty.

XXX

The bath that Caspian had built had been a grand project that Susan hadn’t expected to turn out as well as it had. Really, was there nothing he couldn’t do? His next project had gone faster, one she didn’t understand at all, but it involved space in their very roomy front yard, a flattened and scraped up circle of dirt, and some funny scarecrow like things. She hadn’t known what to make of it, not until one late afternoon when she returned home from work to see Caspian dressed in the strange leather clothes that had been in that weapons bag. It clung to him like a second skin from head to toe - well, collar to toe - and was complete with boots, all of it in a deep red-brown, the repeating sigil he so frequently drew, was emblazoned on the back of the jerkin, just like it was embossed on his luggage too. Susan hadn’t actually ever seen the outfit in full, it had just been something he put away somewhere, and she hadn’t even known where he put the sword she had spied briefly in that bag. It had looked to be some sort of heirloom, she supposed, but now, it was naked, the blade throwing back skittering shafts of light with every sweep. 

And with every sweep, Caspian flowed along with it. 

Now, Susan wasn’t very well versed in any of that guff, but some of the young men she had dallied with, had been quite proud of their fencing skills, going so far as to don their little outfits with the mesh helms and everything, so they could poke about with overgrown knitting needles. It had looked like a silly, fussy hop-dance to her when they did it, and she had grown bored ever so quickly watching those types. However...what Caspian was wielding, wearing, and doing, was _nothing_ like any of that. _Not at all_. 

Then he was flying. Like out of a movie with Errol Flynn - _No, **better** than Errol Flynn!_ \- Caspian danced with weapons in hand, carving the air, floating and flipping with the lazy grace of a cat. Susan went to one of the fruit trees in their yard, one close enough to afford her the best view, but not risk distracting him, and made herself comfortable at the tree’s foot. Part of Susan had thought maybe that the sword thing and some of his manners were just the result of his trauma, but this... Officer training included some fencing Peter had said once, yet she was quite certain it was akin to the silly poking and prancing she had seen others do. Maybe Spanish officer training was more classical? As beautiful as Caspian’s movements were, the easy way the blade slid through the scarecrow dummy, a limb hacked off and sailing, was a stark demonstration of just how real the weapon was as well as the skill it was wielded with. 

Susan lost track of time as she watched Caspian, who eventually stopped, turned towards her, doing some complex and gorgeous maneuver with the blade in salute before sheathing it, followed up by another, deeper, very courtly bow. “Greetings, my fairest and lovely wife,” with vast formality as he straightened, which then came with a wink and a grin. “I trust you were entertained by the view?”

Holding a hand up and out to him, Susan enjoyed the sensation of her fingers sliding into his palm as he helped her rise, “An artist at work is always breathtaking, Caspian,” her answer prim but delivered with a smile. “It does make me wonder how well you might dance.”

Warm lips pressed to her knuckles, his shaggy brown hair falling forward to be swept back by his other hand, not quite long enough to be held back fully by the small tail he wore it in partially, “If it is some staid and dry one, probably rather well, but I could not say for sure until we tried. The way I hear it, the dances that are popular these days are vigorous and wild compared to what my itchy feet direct me towards.” 

“You mean swing? I can do a little of it,” Susan leaned up to gain a peck as she spoke, but the hint of salt on his lips was good and she couldn’t help the brief, deeper kiss that they shared, only coming out of it when the press of his hand at the small of her back broke through. 

Laughter bubbled up as she realized that in the midst of the kiss, with his hand at her back, and her hand held in his other, they had begun dancing. _Without_ music. Soft loam under their feet was surprisingly easy to dance across, and the look in his eyes as he stared at her, was enough to make Susan feel light and free. Exertion heated leather smelled strange so close, deeply musky in an entirely pleasant way, and Susan was all too happy to lay her head against him as they sailed across the ground, filtered light cascading from the many tree limbs overhead. 

“Now would be a good time to have something beautiful to wear, something that complimented your radiance,” Caspian sighed, but he sounded completely happy anyway. “Mint green you said once, though I think wild emerald and bare shoulders may be more striking. Verdant fields beneath the clouds and the sky of your eyes.”

“Poetry and prose, Caspian, you should be careful of being any more perfect,” Susan teased. “Otherwise I may come to believe you sprung up out of some faerie circle, a prince come to find a mortal wife, steal her away to his kingdom under the hill.”

It was his turn to laugh, a snorting one, amused, and his steps began to change, becoming more complex and Susan found them so odd and familiar, but still easy to follow. “Nay, I would be a king then, abandoning his people, to find his queen, whom he was lost without. If I were some faerie monarch, I would gladly spend my eternity with you, in any realm, no matter where it was, because being a king is really useless in the long run. Give me a simple life and the chance for love and acceptance, to be known as myself, and I would give up anything, everything, for that, and to share it with someone who allowed me to give them the same in kind.”

Closing her eyes, Susan just let herself enjoy the dance and the feel of Caspian just so. It was moments like this that felt so bizarrely familiar to her. A magnetism that came from a false memory, an imaginary life that Susan only recalled from dreams that were more like nightmares. It was the loss of some portion of those dreams, a fabricated man that was dark, vital, and didn’t care that he was imperfect, who only wanted acceptance and to be allowed to give his own - maybe that was what drew Susan to the tall, silent form on a tucked away patio. Or maybe it was the flash of boiling black eyes that only showed that they were a soothing brown when seen very close, because that was what stuck with Susan. That, and a longing, with the knowledge she would never find that sort of person in real, true, and dreary life. 

Humming, she rubbed her cheek against the butter soft russet leather. “You know, Lucy would have adored you, and then told you a thousand of her stories.”

“Hmn,” Caspian only nodded his face into her crown as they continued their slow meander. “I wish they were here, though I do wonder what they would make of all this.”

“Oh, I suppose that’s easy enough to imagine how they’d be, they were very set in their ways,” Susan sighed, running her hand up and down his back, the continuing lack of music oddly unimportant. “Lucy would be overjoyed, and you’d be quite lucky if she didn’t try to treat you as a tree to climb, I don’t think she would ever have outgrown that tendency. Peter indulged her a bit much on that, you know, trying to be a stand in for Father during the war. Edmund would probably sit and brood with you quite happily, or play chess. It’s Peter who would have been a problem, I think.” Susan found a snicker as she tried to imagine the two meeting. “The two of you would butt heads so badly, while you’d try to be polite in your disagreements, he’d have no qualms about his, and if it didn’t come to blows - repeatedly! - then no one would be more surprised than me. You’d have Mother eating out of your hand in seconds and Father would be asking you out for a drink and some golf. All very boring.”

“Is there something wrong with being boring?” asked as Susan found herself being picked up lightly and swung in a circle. “I quite like our sedate life, there is no heavy burden of too many responsibilities on our shoulders, and we can just be ourselves. If your family were with us, we would just expand the good in our little realm.”

Realizing that their dance had carried them from the practice ring to their front door, Susan only smiled before touching his lips. “If we’re wishing for them, we should wish for your family too, you know.”

Something dark flitted over her husband’s features and he looked away, jaw tightening, “That wish would be unwise. Considering what is all over my back, they may not have been particularly good family, Susan. Those types can stay far away from our lives.”

Susan shivered and embraced him, seeking to keep him safe from such a terrible possibility. Whatever he did or didn’t remember, he was right, people didn’t carry lash marks like that if they had remotely normal upbringings. With a flash of insight, Susan understood suddenly from whence his feelings of inferiority may come from, along with his longing for reassuring contact. He must have been starved so very badly of those vital aspects of a healthy, loving home. 

“You’re right,” Susan agreed, reaching back to open their front door, tugging him inside. “We only need and want those we love to share our lives.” Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, Susan stood on her toes, pulling him down close enough to whisper against his lips, “I suppose that’s why I need and want you so much.”

The hoped for shudder traveled through him, and Susan found the door closed, blocking out the world that they didn’t really belong in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am havin' a conundrum. Linking the growth/progression from how Caspian was when he first met Susan in Narnia --> VoDT --> Aslan's Country --> Shadowlands/our world has become interesting. I mean, I can see what the roots are of him becoming 'Perfect Caspian willing to risk the Shadowlands just for the sake of a family/friend/fellow monarch' that is in the beginning, but considering how bereaved he was at Su's original loss and his marriage to Esther, it makes my little keyboard tap-tap-tap. Because even with Su, in the 'real world', he still is, at his core, all of those permutations of his earlier self. We see it in his easy fall into deep brooding, his absolute need for physical contact, repeating problems with self-worth and crisis of..perhaps not faith on the whole, or even acceptance of faith...but a feeling of helplessness and being useless. Yet we also see his ability to restrain himself no matter how much he would - if given a chance - take someone's head off in a very literal sense. 
> 
> He's diplomatic/sane/civilized enough to _not_ utterly rip Keith to shreds, and at the hospital, he restrained himself from attacking or doing bodily harm to those who harassed Susan, no matter how clear his desire to him/the reader/Susan (depending upon POV) how very much he wants his hands around the offender's neck. 
> 
> The other hand is, is that as king, he didn't do lots of physical day to day toil - sure, when he was younger, or if he was off searching for Rillian as per the book lore. (Also, according to booklore, he was married to Star's Daughter for 15 years before they finally had Rillian, and he was in his thirties. And Rillian was 20 when Star's Daughter croaks. That means Caspian was with her for 35 years, so not a bad timeline. Of course, book-lore has Caspian be about 19 when VoTD happens, while I have him be 26. Also...did Lewis not think too hard? Because trying for an heir for fifteen years during an reign that needed the surety of an heir, is like, totally fucking unfeasible unless there's some serious fertility issues going on... Almost any monarchy in that situation would have had the supporting lords throwing women at Caspian in a desperate attempt to at least get a bastard to secure the bloodline if he would refuse to set aside his wife.) Still, point being, Caspian may now physically be in a replica of his body in its absolute prime, but the sort of work he's doing is pretty mindnumbing. I don't know how long he would be satisfied with it, yet on the other hand, I don't see him ever complaining about it. 
> 
> On the other hand...Caspian and Su are both perfectly content to have very boring lives together, Caspian's had several lifetimes of 'excitement' (insanity and loss bleck) and Su's been through the wringer a few times herself.


	13. Chapter 13

XXX  
Thirteen  
XXX

Within a mile of their home, there were four houses alone that were unoccupied. Because of Susan’s schedule of four days of work a week and the state of their own property, Caspian had found that his days became less busy... And so he turned his attention to those other homes. With his interactions that grew and deepened his familiarity with the community at large, Caspian had accumulated sufficient connections to gain access to various farm equipment powered by a nag or two on loan, which he employed to mow down the great acres around those vacant homes. It really and truly was a pastoral life, something that he was certain hadn’t ever occurred to him to desire. 

Not that it was _easy_ , Caspian was a man in what seemed to be bizarrely good health compared to many, and was capable of working from sun up to sun down. But there were days when he wondered just how people dealt with their muscles turning to jelly after hoeing two square acres, then weeding the front yard or around the direct back patio, and then anything else that needed doing. Farmers were crazy...and well, that meant he must be as well, because that was what he was doing. It was more than that, however. It was the labour he poured into repairing any of the nearby homes that could be even more draining, for those tasks didn’t yield him anything. (Other than some books, he didn’t feel right actually _taking_ anything from those places. Yes, tools, pots, pans, other mismatched items that could be cleaned up and made useful - those he took briefly so that he could repair them, but they weren’t anything he was going to keep. As for family history items, just as Susan had encouraged him to do with the Smythes’ things of historical value, he boxed such materials up to be taken to the museum for Humphreys the curator to see to. If Caspian timed it right, he may even get to assist, which was always an exciting and educational set of hours as he absorbed not just local history, but the preservation techniques and how things were catalogued and stored. Caspian actually looked rather forward to those times, but he also made sure to go when it was sort of worth his time, a little drag along cart to carry up to four or five crates of such materials.) 

A letter from Pembles had said he was considering moving to St. Ives, and the Englishman wanted his opinion on a good little cottage that didn’t have much in terms of acres to be tended, as he had ‘a black thumb to all growing things’. Caspian knew of a vacant home that would do, and after finding Mr. Vissick the solicitor to discuss a few particulars, he was told to do whatever he saw fit to make the home suitable within reason. Such properties belonged to the parish and Pembles would be able to purchase the home from the town council. Another duty was added to Caspian’s long list, and he set himself to it without complaint. Also, just because Pembles had a complete inability to take care of any gardening, didn’t mean the man couldn’t be expected to deal with some animals. Chickens were easy and fruitful, and Caspian would wait until he saw how Beth or Pembles were with goats, as he’d be happy to share the bounty of the bouncy little things.

On and on, until it was Fridays with Susan in the afternoon within town, at the library or the beach. In truth, those were his real days ‘off’, for Saturdays was housework with Susan, Sundays she would go to church service (which Caspian thankfully wasn’t required to go to - any religion that led to the deaths of many just because of a disagreement, wasn’t any sort of religion he wanted truck with) had him playing catch up on heavier tasks around their home or expanding on some larger project until she returned from service and then the afternoon luncheon that was popular post service. Mondays was seeing to the vacant homes, Tuesdays to their own, Wednesdays were errands in town, Thursdays were assisting anyone who had made a request for it... Caspian’s life may be filled with physical labour that wore him out, but the rewards of time with Susan, of basking in her laughter, or the quiet moments where they read to one another, their lovemaking, or the dancing in their front yard, uncaring of any possible passerby... All of that was worth shaking muscles and the occasional unhappy groan from too much lifting. 

Somehow, someway, in July Caspian got asked to go to some council meeting, where they offered him a job. An _actual_ job. There were so many empty homes, _even inside town_ at this point, the population decline was sharp and increasingly steep. (Privately, Caspian worried that the speed would increase to a point that was unsustainable, and the parish would be in danger of some form of collapse or not being able to care for itself fully.) Derelict homes posed dangers, as shown by one of the local children needing a leg amputated after having taken a bad fall while playing about a rundown home. They - meaning Vissick, Humphreys the museum curator and Nance - had pointed out that Caspian was already doing things on his own to take care of the town, and there was always so much that needed doing, that he should be compensated for it. Susan had met the good news with a romp in the living room then into the bath and back again... It had been a _very good_ day, he had the banged and reddened knees to prove it, along with a few claw marks about his chest and shoulders. 

When Pembles and Elizabeth Lewis (well, Beth Pembles since they got married) moved to town, it was a fresh flurry of frenzied activity. Things were looking up, and Caspian found happy springs to his step as he brought in the harvest, pressing Pembles and Beth in to help with the processing of the bounty when it was too much for him alone to handle in timely fashion. Great glass _quarabahs_ [carboys] were filled with mulberry wine, fermenting. And while Pembles had claimed he had a black thumb fit to kill living plants, Caspian still convinced his friend to help with winter tilling on some of the nearby acres of empty homes. Squashes and other hardy vegetables went into the ground, and when those would be pulled, Caspian fully intended on throwing in oats and winter barley. His goal was to get he and Susan completely self-reliant food-wise, so that even though he was making an income to add to their household in addition to the rents from the Scrubb and Pevensie homes, paired with Susan’s work as a nurse and his stipend from his trust fund... Caspian was hoarding probably, and didn’t much care one way or another. Beth was very happy for the more than fair share gained from the helping out she and Pembles did, as Caspian settled about labeling and recording dates, and categorizing produced stock. 

Times out at the pub, what was once a late lunching time for Caspian, became Friday evenings out at the pub with Pembles. Caspian may like his friend very much, but that much free flowing drink, that many men, in such a small place, sort of... Honestly, Caspian couldn’t take much of it, and often wound up sitting outside, still nursing his first or second cider, content to be quiet on the curb. He liked a good drink, but alcohol wasn’t necessary for a good time. Then again, Caspian’s idea of a fun time was probably boring to many of the men inhabiting the pub presently. A book, his art, listening to Susan read to him, going for a walk with Susan, maybe if they got down there and it was a warm day - a nice swim and splash with sandcastles and a picnic basket at the beach. Those were fun to Caspian, quiet affairs that didn’t squash him in with many others with varying degrees of hygiene (both oral and physical) who always were trying to ply him with more drink. Sometimes Caspian wondered what it was about him that made others think he needed to be drunk...

“Ah, young Mr. Pevensie,” Mr. Vissik hailed him as he approached, his outfit a herringbone tweed for the evening. “How goes things?”

Caspian began to rise, but the older man waved him to remain seated on the curb before plunking down himself with an ease of a man quite a bit younger than his late fifties. “They go well enough, Mr. Vissick. Life is good, quiet, except for the happy little new goat kids that came, they are somewhat loud when pleading for their bottles, but it is not a bad sort of loud.”

Vissick looked at him intently for a moment, then back at the light spilling from the pub’s windows. “Quiet’s important, son, but so’s friendship.”

Caspian glanced back over his shoulder briefly, “Friendship is wonderful, but cheeriness based in fatigue and drink is a bit thin and false when taken in too large a dose for someone like me. It is fine, but I need air to breathe and quiet in quantity to prepare myself to match them. If I sat in there as I am now, they would be distressed or the air would go somber. Better I gain space, and the atmosphere is not tainted during the portions when I must have space.”

The solicitor lifted his cap and scratched his salt and pepper hair briefly before readjusting it. “Foxholes can get mighty cramped, loud with things you don’t want to think too much on. In the First War, most of us died from bad leadership, worse rations or none, weapons that didn’t work right, no training, and incompetence every which way you looked. Medics and medicine that were often worse than none... Did a lot more dying from all that than we did from enemy action.” 

He could only nod, having heard the older man.

“But your war, that’s different,” Vissick looked at him intently again. “Everything was efficient at killing, better at it, more refined. A Spanish transplant to Argentina, neck deep in a war that didn’t involve him. Why’d you do that, Pevensie?”

There were a lot of possible answers. Some fabricated, some not. One of them could be the truth, not that Caspian could say. Instead, Caspian did his best to look back, as though he were seeing some younger version of himself making such a decision - and would those reasons make any sense to him now? There were many reasons he could pull from now, when viewed from a naive, inexperienced mind, one that desired to have an impact, that believed in righteousness and defense of the weak... No, Caspian still believed in those things. But it was tempered, he wasn’t so young and foolish as to think what such a younger version of himself would have believed. A younger him, an idealist, who truly had hope and belief in the common goodness of mankind...that version of himself would have probably believed that good could prevail without becoming tainted. _Dance with the Devil, and it is not the Devil who changes, but yourself._

“Mr. Vissick, I cannot say for certain what moved me to do so,” Caspian chose his words carefully. “If not patriotism, if not anger at loss of home and life in Spain - perhaps what moved me was not knowing what else to do. Maybe a sense of right and wrong, because while atrocity is on all sides, inescapable for those on the field, and even more so with those who order the little toy soldiers about, it us, all of us, with our hands painted and stained red, there are levels of it that cannot be tolerated and still be considered human. To defend those who cannot defend themselves, speak for those who have no voice, to do what you can for more than just yourself, your family, a town, a city, or even a country... Sometimes a human with breath and health in their body is driven to act, and the reasons are not so important.” He shrugged gesturing with his pint glass. “In the end all you get is dead bodies stacked like cord-wood, a lot of families decimated, lives....obliterated. Any chance, hope, thought, dream, potential - snuffed out, erased, ‘naught more than a letter here or there, memories of people who age whose recollections will fade to nothing except those who truly suffer for the loss, a number on a file that will be misplaced or reside in a building that will burn, and in fifty years, no one will have cared about a bright smiling father of three proudly going to serve country, with the hope of also protecting what he has been told are innocents. In the end, it is all forgotten, one side painted heroes, one side painted villains, instead of everyone admitting they were all turkeys and fools.”

Vissick let out a snort which was one of the closest things Caspian had heard from the man that may be a laugh, and Caspian’s own mouth twisted into a dark smile of his own when the solicitor said, “Turkeys don’t have much use, except on the dinner table, Pevensie. Which I’m certain you know, hunting man that you are.”

“Agreed, sir.” Caspian nodded, sighed, continued. “Those fools and foolhardy who declared such wars and policies, none of them wish to see the firsthand cost. Nobody wants to look at the corpses, the light fading from terrified eyes, as water or mother are mewled for. To smell what a battlefield is really like, people, sane, normal, civilized people, they cannot face that. None of the leaders give a damn about the sounds of broken mothers and fathers make as they, ten, fifteen, and thirty, forty years later, still cannot understand that empty ache that filled in the spot where their child once lived for a few years. None of them wish to see children with dead or maimed parents. Women will turn aside their smart looking soldier they loved ever so much because he returns missing an eye, and his nightmares leave him screaming nonsense, and he terrifies her now, his helplessness and poisonous pain driving him to strike her one time too many, or she has heard of other girls whose soldiers are that way, and she turns him away, out of fear... And then he takes his service pistol to paint the walls chunky grey and pink.” Caspian lifted his face to the sky, “The dead, the damned, the damaged, and those who died inside from what they were to do, they return here in droves, stark reminders that we do not need mythical monsters or demons to show us what evil is. We only have to look in ourselves. Safe havens that longed for the return of their kin and friends, find that what comes in their stead, are changlings. The people, they want the war gone, they want to forget, expunge all they can until the raw tenderness fades, they are sympathetic and understanding for a time, but then begin to wonder why someone always must keep his back in the corner. Why one has a wife who must handcuff him to the bed for fear of his fits every night. Broken changlings return and are welcomed for awhile, loved for awhile, but just when they may dare to begin to find some sort of thing to hang onto, or to help them climb from the fifty foot deep trenches that are in their soul...patience runs out. Healing takes too long when everyone else just wishes to forget the pain and what broken things were returned to them. Reintegration, too long. Generations lost...” He took a long pull on his cider, “Whatever reasons I had back then, most of me thinks they would never stand up to scrutiny. That it was the decision of some young, dumb, and starry eyed boy who believed he could make a difference...and I pity that youth...until I see Susan and all of it goes quiet, Mr. Vissick.”

“My grandmother used to say that still waters run deep,” said after Vissick waited, listened, absorbed what Caspian said, not showing much, but Caspian hadn’t gotten the hang of reading some of the different facial and body language styles of many of the English classes yet. They were all so _repressed_ , contained, yes, more contained than anything. Which always made it so odd when it was someone who was explosively obvious, like Pembles or Massan by comparison. “You see a river or a lake, and its surface is sluggish, barely travelling at all. Because it’s deep, son. Calm, gentle surface, but dive in, and the force of the current will carry you so far that maybe you’ll drown, but if you don’t find yourself deceased, you wind up somewhere else far away.” The Englishman rose easily, popping up, spry and began to head into the pub, paused, and turned to him, “You do make a difference, and when you’re ready, you’ll make more, Pevensie. Don’t let yourself be pushed too far, too fast before you’re ready - but don’t dig in so hard to resist the pull, that you’re locked immobile and resistant to change.”

XXX

Caspian grimaced as another Friday came around. The day itself was wonderful, but the fact that from about eight in the evening until two in the earliest of morning, he was expected to stay at the pub rather than ravishing his wife, due to social constraints, made Caspian begin to not like Fridays much. Now, if only it were socially acceptable for Susan to come with him, then he could probably survive. Yet when he had suggested it, complete with some bangs in his eyes, and a sweeter than usual expression, Susan had just kissed him, smiling, and reminded him for the umpteenth time that it wouldn’t be proper for a woman to enter such an establishment outside of instances that she was a guest at the hostel bit. 

At the pub, Caspian had carefully found his usual spot taken by a young man he didn’t recognize. While Caspian chose that spot so he could properly survey exits, all doors, windows, part of the street, and the overall taproom, he grimaced, holding his cider and looking for a different one that would be sufficient for his requirements. However, there were none available. Those who were growing accustomed to his presence on Friday evenings, no longer remarked if he had to exit for a time, and Caspian had found himself exiting a half hour or so prior to solicitor Vissick’s customary appearance at the pub. The conversations had initially been more about military service and responsibility, until Vissick had gained whatever his fill was on that - and then the conversations were on social service and responsibility, morality, the law, the classes, they were stimulating conversations that Caspian got little enough of outside of Susan... Yet, what with the pub packed even more than usual, Caspian had a sinking suspicion he wouldn’t be able to last indoors until his usual break time. Not sober. Downing his cider in a straight chug, Doug, one of the shepherds, had laughed, clapping his hands. And when Caspian squirmed up to the bar, he held up four fingers, pointed at the bottle of hard liquor, not caring what kind it was, paid, then began his easy knocking back. One or two acquaintances laughed, asked him if it was a dare, celebration, the wife was mad, or pregnant (they all said that was about the same, but Caspian had only grunted and ordered six shots, and cider, as the first four wouldn’t do much when they worked into his blood.) More curtly than he intended, Caspian said that his usual spot for Friday nights was taken, and that it was more crowded than he was accustomed - then he laughed jovially to take the sting away, as he added that if he was going to be packed in like a sardine with them, he’d rather be a pickled one.

Bert, barman on duty, had eyed him warily after - _Four and six and...ten shots. Ten? No, less than ten minutes. One cider first, now - yes, second, eleven drinks, working twelve, correct. Damn is that the alcohol fuzzing or am I that anxious?_ \- Caspian had pounded back such a quantity of alcohol, not from the alcohol, but from the amount of liquid on a stomach full from a perfect, late dinner. Aware he’d have to wait a little for the ethanol to work into his bloodstream, and his stomach would need to make some room, Caspian twisted and slouched into a spot that sadly left his back to the tavern. It was a position in such close quarters, that had Caspian clenching a fist against his thigh, tucked and hidden below the bar top. Bad jokes and things he had picked up from other vets were disseminated to the men around him, faces he knew, people he was well acquainted with. As the alcohol _finally_ began to make his nose feel numb, Caspian let loose a sigh. Apparently the racing, frantic thoughts that had been illogical, were anxiety rather than booze related.

...That was actually somewhat disheartening, to be so handicapped in tight, loud crowds, with no fit spot for him to watch his surroundings, not even _most_ of it... _Where is Pembles anyway? He is late._

Eight thirty according to his battered military issued watch. Pembles usually was there right at seven or seven thirty, and Caspian usually waited until good cheer was established before entering quietly. It really and truly wasn’t that Caspian disliked social gatherings, it was just that the evening crowd was wild, prone to over drinking, and various contests of male dominance poorly executed even when sober, but almost dangerous when inebriated. It also bothered Caspian that so many of these men, some veterans, yes, but most older, so - no. Recalling Vissick’s assertion about World War One, Caspian sighed. So, anyone who wasn’t a veteran of either war, was either too young, far too old, or one of a handful of sort of in-between age that somehow managed to not quite be drafted for the Allies against the Axis. _Very well, looks to be a long evening._

Elbow on the bartop, propping his chin, Caspian, waited to catch Bert’s attention, “Bert, it is going to be a long night, have pity and give me whatever the finest, strongest liquor you have. And a lot of it.”

Bert wasn’t the type to speak out of turn, Caspian knew it, yet he was unsurprised with the balding, skinny but for a pendulous little beer gut that had seen better days and filling, barman leaned briefly on the counter, head coming in close to break through the din, “Caspian, a big night for you’s three or four ciders and maybe a finger of whiskey or scotch. I don’t wanna see you get in trouble, lad. You put those back like you got somethin’ to drown, lad.”

Shoulders rolling forward, Caspian rested both elbows and forearms on the bartop, calmly, “Pembles is late, my usual spot is taken, and there are too many people, Bert. It would take a truly heroic amount of something to get me in trouble. If it is cider, I drink it because I like the taste, _amigo_ , not because it does anything to me at all. In about forty minutes what little buzz I currently have achieved, will vanish, and I will be as squirrely and anxious as a cat on a tin roof at noon in summer.” Carefully, Caspian cocked his head, his usual mannerisms firmly in place, and he knew his smile was a tight grimace, which served the purpose of showing his discomfort, his gaze going from Bert’s pale brown to the space behind and under the counter where the actually decent stuff resided. “Please, Bert, it needs to be strong.”

The barkeep stared at him a few moments longer, sighed, nodded, bar towel thrown over a yellowed white shirt covered shoulder, and out came a good bottle of something out of Ireland if the label was right. Probably watered down or adulterated with cheaper stuff, but rations were still tight. (Apparently they were lucky they had cider, but the cider was completely local, and not half bad. Caspian was glad he had undertaken brewing already, come the leaner months in terms of what was brewed or available, he would at least have a nice supply. Probably be good for buying some further goodwill. One of the darkest jugs of mulberry wine was already selected and labeled for Dr. Nance. There would be others.) In times passed, or if it weren’t so crowded (or if Bert wasn’t a decent man worried about a man he knew was a pretty muckled vet who often went off to be alone, even in crowds) the bottle would have been set in front of him if cash were put down. 

Caspian fished out a five pound note, tip and tab, tapping the paper bill, “Tip and tab, _amigo_. Four fingers worth and a cider in a while.”

“You got a plan to get home, Cas?” Bert was taking time he probably shouldn’t waste on him. It was kind. 

“Worst case, I will get a room,” jerking his chin towards the hostel. “But I have no intention of becoming that far gone.” Holding his hand up in a little scout motion he saw in a newsreel, “I promise.”

Drinking steadily, pacing himself, Caspian did his best to twist and look around frequently. Some of his closer acquaintances sought to draw him out. More questions on if Susan and he were expecting - what was their obsession with newlyweds becoming pregnant so soon? Did they not understand that a couple and household, especially one with no family nearby or alive, should be on the way to firmer standing, before bringing in the demanding and expensive extra of a babe or two? Once or twice, Caspian was tempted to tell them to piss off, or say that he would rather have a night of unbroken sleep for a year or two more, or that if it were broken, it was only because his wife awoke needful. That waspish and thorny sort of speech wasn’t fit for St. Ives, so instead, he just shook his head, smiled beatifically, shrugged, and nursed his drink at a speed that allowed him to maintain his state, with a few interruptions of several down shots at once. If Pembles were present, he could carry conversation, many of them, and Caspian could be with and around people, without having to strain himself...so long as he wasn’t pressured to remain inside all night. Alone, when it was the very comfortable setting of a slightly post lunch hour, Caspian could hold his own just fine. And yes, those around at those times tended to be older men, and one or two middle-aged, with the rare younger male about, the situation didn’t seem so rife with a bunch of bored drunks wanting to enter pissing contests. Yet Friday nights were the exact opposite, and Caspian _couldn’t_ handle it well on his own.

Someone unfamiliar bumped and pressed to the bar beside him, elbowing him and rather clumsily seeking to cause him to spill his drink. An irritated, ‘Outta m’way, Spic’ filled his head, and Caspian didn’t even spare the cockroach a glance, not even a grunt. Another irritation, glowering and drinking had been seated beside him for awhile, staring at him with a resentment so intense for a stranger, that it would have been laughable. Caspian ignored them both, they weren’t worth his time. Calf tensing though, Caspian did check to feel his boot sheath and the dagger there. Not that he would need that, they were nothing. To distract himself from the look and the far, far too close press (closer than necessary even on such a packed night), Caspian sniffed once, and drained his drink. Blinking at it with a frown, Caspian realized it had been a cider. Well that meant the whiskey had been finished. Too bad. Philosophical shrug, Caspian dug out a pack of cigarettes. He had basically quit, except for the occasional one during the week, but it was generally only on Friday nights when he was getting sick of the noise, light, behaviour, crowding, that Caspian could be driven to do more than light one and hold it, getting only one or two drags out before it disappeared. Fridays though, he still bought cigarettes for those.

“Hey, Spic, gimme one of those,” hand reaching for his pack rudely as Caspian set the pack on the counter so he could light up.

Pausing, he stared at the ruddy skinned hand. Gaze sliding and following up the length, Caspian finally zeroed in on the prat. Reaching out, he covered the idiot’s wrist, tucking Seymour’s reclaimed lighter away, then he extracted his pack from under the red paw, “No.”

Pack back in his own possession and then put away, Caspian, rubbed the underside of his jaw, sucking a deep breath of harsh tobacco smoke, and then grasped the grungy white tube with index and middle fingers, thumb remaining on the underside of his chin. 

Angrily, “You should learn some manners, nigger -”

“I do not hail from India, nor the Arab countries, nor am I of black African descent nor colouration,” Caspian intoned emotionlessly, not looking at anything in particular, just staring at the wall across the tavern. “If you are looking for fun, you will have better luck elsewhere, _capullo_.”

_Pembles, where the bloody, fucking hell are you? And Bert, fuck, I need another drink. Quit twiddling your thumbs, why are you wasting time on those slobs?_

The glowering one, Caspian didn’t even have to slide his eyes to the side to see him, and he decided the man was going to be Baby Glower in his head, he had cheeks fat enough to put most bouncing toddlers to shame, decided to speak. “Hey, Andrew, I know this guy. He’s what’s the guy who goes around and fixes up houses...when the husbands aren’t home!” 

Were these imbeciles real? _Perhaps a bit of ergot in the whiskey? Surely no one is this stupid. I must be mishearing their blabber._ Especially since Caspian’s reputation wasn’t _just_ as a very pleasant fellow, happy to lend a helping hand to anyone. Every time he had been at the pub when a brawl broke out, Caspian would let it go on for a good long while, but eventually would grow bored, because drunks really didn’t always know when they should have broken apart for a scuffle to cease. Caspian was known to step in, clear it, get those well enough to their homes, patch up those who needed it, then get them home, and that he did all of the above with the same sort of businesslike manner as he used when mowing his lawn with the scythe. If they were completely serious, they were paid well, had something to prove, were really, truly, that stupid with no sense of self-preservation, or were new in town. Caspian didn’t dignify their bullshit accusation with a reply, just took another drag, flicked ash in the closest glass tray, and continued to wait for Bert to stop being distracted mediating what looked to be an argument over goats, sheep, cows, chickens, women, or who had paid for the last round. (They were all sort of the same thing. Soon, they would all make up without a scuffle, or begin slugging one another, then make up afterwards. It was the same cycle over and over again.)

‘Andrew’s reply was smug, “Yeah, he’s the one I told you ‘bout. Comin’ in and outta the Foyle home. Frank and his old lady were on the outs, now she’s all fat with a baby. Whaddya wanna bet it’s not even Frank’s?”

“If it comes out all darkie, we’ll know right soon enough, another month or two, the slagg’ll be popping out a brat,” somehow amused by his extremely _astute_ supposition. 

Caspian listened, he kept a rein on his temper. If they didn’t back off by the time his cigarette was done, he would probably make an unwise decision. Susan would be most disappointed in him, which was enough to get through Caspian’s pleasant haze that had thus far been good for keeping him docile, immobile. 

Impact on his shoulder, a little shove of a meaty red hand, “Hey, you here drinkin’ because Frank found out and he’s gonna beat your arse?” A honking laugh, “When your woman sees your head handed to you in a paper bag, she’ll remember next time that Spics’re just a bit of foreign pork.”

“Yeah, well, way I hear it told, she’s had so much sausage, that it was like a grand hallway, had to downsize for a bit,” snickering. “Bet she’d be real appreciative of bein’ reminded what a proper lad’s like with a good dose of sausage in them flaps.”

Caspian held his cigarette up, frowned at it as he asked, “Say whatever asinine things you wish about me. Make trouble for others, I will watch you, then make trouble for you later...” Standing from his barstool, “But I ask you this now so I am certain there are no misunderstandings - what is it you just said you would do to my wife?”

Andrew sized him up, a smug little grin on his crooked, meaningless face, “Said I’d round up a few of the boys, show her what real men are made of. Maybe I’ll even go tonight! You can’t do much ‘bout it either.”

Lips quirking, Caspian nodded on a slow inhale from his nose, his irritatingly numb nose (hadn’t bothered him earlier, the alcohol was wearing off). “I see.” Gesturing towards the door, his voice projecting to cut through the noise in a reflexive way that wasn’t obvious, “If you wish to make such statements, you should be aware of how to back them up. Then again, I am a man of honour, and you...” Hitched, purposeful, pause, not enough to look forced, “well, it really is not polite to denigrate those already so low.”

Laughter, boisterous, “Yeah? What’ll you do nancy boy? Run away? Flail your little handies and use your big words? What works on women, don’t work on men, poof.”

“Oh? Is that so? You know, I actually feel sorry for you, Andrew,” Caspian said, hand bracing on the counter as he faced the moron. “Making up stories, such an active imagination you have. It must be very lonely with your belly scraping along the ground like a worm, not even your mamas wish to pay you any mind, so why would any of the innumerable women of the parish? They have actual standards.” 

Caspian let himself be shoved, but Andrew didn’t do more than that, “You swishy little queer, I’ll get you good!”

“You will?” giving a good sway and scanning, head bobbling as though he were utterly soused pretending to not be, as Baby Glower slunk aside and to the front. “Colour me amazed! You actually want to go against me? I mean, I am well, _me_ and you are, well,” gesturing at them both with his hands, encompassing them, “well... _you_. If either of you were able to deliver on your word, then perhaps you should be given a fighting chance. Bert, Bert, I require another cider if you please. These boys wish to challenge me -” pausing, leaning in again, “wait, why did you wish to get me good? That is the phrase, yes?” Index finger flicking back and forth between them, “Will that take one or both of you? And one at a time, or same time? I am amenable to whatever will assuage your fears.”

“Cas, this is insane, you’re falling down drunk,” Bert growled, trying to intercede, but the men of the pub were taking bets already. 

Laughing, head lolling to his shoulder, and Caspian propped himself up against the counter with an elbow, ankles crossed, “But they have promised to get me good and hand my ass to me, then go show Susan a good time with a bunch of their little gang. Perhaps I should mention she is capable of defending herself, or not?” Dismissive wave, “Oh, no, never mind that, they will have many of their hooligans to storm my home. But first...first they must actually show their mettle.” Patting the bar, then grabbing his cider, Caspian drained it in a long drought, then set the glass down with the sort of excessive care of the very drunk, smiling beatifically, “Bert, they threatened to gang rape my wife. You know what that means?”

There were a few shuffling grunts of disbelief, while the two brats tried to bluff. It didn’t work for them. Because Caspian was Pembles’ friend, and on Friday nights, Pembles was king of the tavern, and friends with all. Sort of like how, during the day, when it came to practical usefulness, everyone turned to Caspian as their solver of problems.

“They deserve to deliver what their big mouths have spouted off.” Straightening, Caspian stepped up and between the two, fast and wobbly, arms wrapped around their shoulders, and making them turn, face the same direction as himself, as he hugged their heads. “Ah, today, you will make your countrymen proud and show some backbone - I mean, of course, if you dare. I dare, do you?”

Then he slipped away, staggering and fumbled at the tavern door, and meandered a few steps into the street. It didn’t take long, it wouldn’t. After that much talking, and then his own, it made him look not so good, at least, it wouldn’t, until he made sure to expunge the meatheads. _No, Caspian, death - bad. No killing. How unfortunate._ Plan A was to destroy their standing in the village, and he knew how to do that, and it was a lot more subtle than a drunk man should come up with. Plan B was to physically destroy them, and somehow manage to resist the urge to either kill or maim. Caspian waited and the door creaked open, smoke, sound, light, and footsteps. Lots of them.

Removing his goofy brown cardigan Caspian folded it neatly and spied out Doug, handing it to him. 

Tutting he looked at the fools, “What? Hesitation? Please do tell me you are suffering the same sort of performance anxiety you do whenever you manage to find a woman dead enough to fuck you?”

And then there was the futile, infantile roar of an angry twenty-something young man, who hadn’t the sense evolution granted a gnat. Caspian wobbled side to side like he was actually on the defensive, poorly evading, and he would give the brute that - Andrew was strong. It was all patchy boxing skills, cheap brawling that didn’t really render any practicable effects in a fight. There were calls around him, urgings for him to fight, to defend himself, tuck his chin, this that and the other. No, Caspian allowed himself to get enough strikes so when he finally acted, if he did at all -

“You’re wife’s cunt’s as good as mine, but it’s filthy, maybe I’ll just stick it in her arse,” Andrew growled and hissed low. “Be my name she’s screechin’ out like the cheap slag she is tonight.”

Caspian sighed, halted all evasive play, and quite seriously, unconcerned and unmoved by the fist slamming into his stomach, “You really should not have threatened Susan, Andrew. Once is stupidity, second is foolishness, third, is...” 

“Quit standin’ around you -”

He was silenced, momentarily at least, by the back of Caspian’s hand plowing through his mouth. Teeth came loose, and because of the nature of a backhand, Caspian was happily unscathed in that regard. Mouths really were horrible places, bite wounds always got nasty infections. Being that it was night, it was dark, so no one saw how very easily Caspian began to really pound on Andrew. They couldn’t see the blood that was likely about to quickly colour his shirt if a soon to be broken rib pierced flesh. The thug was going to be demolished by the time Caspian was finished. Quite inexplicably - to those never in a real fight - Caspian felt no anger as he spun on one foot, opposite leg coiled and then extending like a whipcrack, straight into Andrew’s side. A gasping gurgle, and Andrew wavered for a moment, then his partner in crime was driven to action himself. _Now_ it was getting interesting. Aware that there was more danger, he actually attempted to deflect the knife that did wind up embedded in his thigh. Pain raced through that contact, except Caspian shoved that aside as unimportant. Where one knife was, another could be. 

Catching wrists, headbutting, it was a flurry of ungainly and graceless thugs trying to take down a skilled fighter. Overall, it could only end one way really. It was inevitable. They would be on the ground, broken, bleeding, and incapable of following through on their threat to Susan. And Caspian would likely be taken to the brig. When both were down, Caspian stood over them, then quickly stepped back as pub goers were diving towards him like they may attempt to pry him free, likely expecting him to continue his destruction on already downed opponents. (It's what most would do, Caspian supposed.) Hobbling back, the knife grinding, Caspian waited as the other two were looked over. Dr. Nance was called, and someone had called Susan, since she was racing to them, and Caspian momentarily regretted having agreed to Dr. Nance installing the bloody phone line. 

“Caspian, oh, god, what happened -” Susan was rushing, she must have run the whole way, the satchel containing his personally stocked medical kit over her shoulder. 

He wouldn’t back down, and he wouldn’t feel shame, as he gingerly sat on the ground, leg extended for her to see, “They threatened to gang rape you. They will live, but if they dare come near you, their status can be revised.”

Startled, his wife’s gaze snapped up to his face, “What do you mean they threatened to gang rape me?”

“They said that they would gather a gang of the lads,” unable to help the angry gowl, “and show you what you were missing out on. Said he would go tonight to show you. Then, before I actually began to defend myself, he said he would go into our home, take you, and stick it in your rump, though the word used was cruder...” His jaw set and Caspian had to struggle to get those words out. But then they were free, and so was he. “No one threatens you, Susan. Not like that. No one gets away clean for that.”

Pain was in his face that he hadn’t noticed, and only did because Susan’s touch was so gentle as she cupped his cheek, “Oh Caspian...they’ll just say it was all talk.”

“And when is it no longer just talk, Susan? What point?” tired. “They mentioned things that no one here...would be aware of.” His wife didn’t understand, and Caspian murmured, “They spoke as though they had heard stories from that toad you squashed. I do not trust the situation, spreading things like that. A little egging here and there can lead the stupid lack wits and hooligans like those trolls to do very, very dangerous things. Things that can get people hurt, Susan.”

Vissick approached as Susan tended him, the solicitor taking in the scene. “Mr. Pevensie, Mrs. Pevensie, always good to see you, I just wish it weren’t under these circumstances.” The solicitor finally checked to see what Susan was doing, and was suddenly, very obviously perturbed, “Pevensie - you’ve been stabbed.”

“It will have to be pulled slow,” Caspian agreed through grit teeth, probing the area with practiced fingers. Susan had already cut away the fabric of his pants, and was readying the disinfectant he preferred for wounds. “I can feel its placement, and it should not be close to major blood vessels, but the grinding on the bone will feel particularly unpleasant. Other than infection, I am mostly worried about severing of tissue. But...we will come to that when we come to it.”

“Son, you should wait for -”

Grinning and bearing it, Caspian grunted, strained and kept his hand steady, braced just so, to prevent him from just yanking it free, even as he could hear Susan wanting to chide him, scold him, fuss and fret, but she was experienced. She also knew how stubborn he was and the fact that he preferred to do for himself - unless it was her assisting. It was a time to go for calm. Even though by the end, hands shaking, Caspian let out a pained scream, as he had to wiggle the blade gently side to side on the last, so it would come free without tearing. Lurching to the side, Caspian sagged against Susan’s shoulder, face burrowing into her shoulder, drained of strength for the moment. 

“Mr. Vissick, I need you to maintain pressure on this spot for me with your hand underneath his -”

“I remember what I learned in the trenches, just fine Mrs. Pevensie,” was said and Caspian sucked in a groan of dull throbbing pain as Vissick applied pressure to his thigh, top and bottom. “How long shall we let him bleed?”

“Five count -”

“Ten count,” Caspian overrode her gently. “No idea quality of the blade, cleanliness, what it was last used on,” he was already prying the wound apart with retractors, having dug about and steeled himself, and then he doused the gaping with the disinfectant made from potent honey and other, various, herbs, fungi, and flowers that he’d managed to find native to the area that would do their job. Strangling the instinctive cry, Caspian watched them put on the tourniquet. “Cauterizing powder should go next, Susan. Vissick, can you please hold a torch to see?”

The look she gave him was more than disapproving, “No. I’ll sew up what I can, then we’ll cauterize.”

Shaking his head, Caspian leaned back on his hands, unable to make himself do more for the moment, gasping for breath, “Too deep, cauterize. Spot apply the powder. Stitching at current depth, causes strain, risks tearing in tendon and muscle at those angles.” Panting, “Would leave me unable to fight if the tosser instigates a real attack, unacceptable.”

Susan did as he instructed, though she was very clearly not happy. Vissick watched, pensive, helping in this or that way until Caspian’s wound was cleaned as it was going to get, packed with honey and wine gauze, a little stent of it hanging so some drainage could occur without the outermost stitches being removed. Behind them the local police had gotten everyone extraneous to disperse, the two half-wits who dared threaten Susan, had gone with them.

It was going to be a long hop-limp home, and Caspian groaned, in frustration. “I fucking _despise_ Friday nights. Instead of at home, in bed, with my wife, reading a book or eating _biscuits_ for all I care, I am stuck in a goddamned crowd of people pushing and shoving, and no safe spot to _sit_ and Pembles was not even there! What the hell time is it?” Checking his watch, after midnight, just wonderful. “Has anyone checked on the Pembles? Someone should,” sudden alarm going through him. 

“One of the boys was sent to go fetch him for his car,” Vissick informed him, his expression still unreadable as Caspian flopped to the side, uncaring for propriety, it could bog off, and lay his head on Susan’s chest, arms around her waist. “Massan was too far in his own cups, otherwise you would have already been home.”

Under Caspian’s ear, Susan’s hypnotically soothing heartbeat existed, her arm around him, a hand petting his back and head. She was so calm, exuding it, even though he knew later she would be plenty upset. Upset at him, upset at what had happened...it always came out, and that was alright. Caspian was grateful for her aura and presence, how she could chase away the foulness of the way he was feeling, yet he also felt bad that anything had happened that made it necessary. 

Susan’s voice echoed and burred in her chest, and Caspian pressed his ear tighter, eyes closed, “Mr. Vissick, do you know anything of the condition of the other two?”

Caspian growled at mention of them, but let himself be hushed with fingers rubbing at his throbbing temple.

“They’ll be left faces only a mother could love for a long time,” Vissick informed them. “Andrew Wells and Paul Redford have been troublemakers often enough that no one’s probably surprised that they singled out Caspian. It’s not my habit to spread possible rumour or gossip, but if they said anything approaching what your husband indicated they did, he may have had good enough cause to be...concerned.” Firmly, “But that’s no excuse for it either.”

Mumbling, muffled momentarily by rubbing his face and cheek against the soft swell of breast, “I was going to let them beat me down and be done with it. Work them up to stupid rage, let them expend it until they were exhausted...I think. The plan was not really well thought out.”

“What? Caspian, whatever for, that’s absolutely silly,” Susan scoffed leaning back some and pushing his shoulders a little to give him one of her small scowls that meant she was _particularly_ disappointed. “What on earth was going on in your head?”

Pressing and burrowing back in, not unlike how some small sleepy children did when being difficult, “The pub was crowded, loud, very loud, I was alone, my safe spot was gone, and all the other plausibly secure places were taken, but Pembles cannot be trusted to not get himself into trouble when unattended, so I had to stay and wait, only way to do that, was that make instinct sluggish so I did not jump and attack every time I was startled...” It made sense during, and while explaining, at least to him, but Susan’s soft scoffs and huffs made Caspian feel rather dumb. “Then these two, they crowded me so tight, that if they had been women, I would be quite unsurprised if they were for hire, if you take my meaning, with how rubbed up and pressing they were. I ignored them, they made further bothers, talking over my head, insults, if I was in a more secure spot, would have laughed at them probably... Instead, best I could do was not react...until they threw out their disgusting comments on you.” Caspian wanted to sound angry, but it was plaintive, “They were speaking like they had spoken to someone who knew you years ago who holds a grudge...just...ugly, ugly things, Susan. That made me upset, but I did my best to continue ignoring...but then they said they would ‘remind’ you and gather some of their scummy friends to do so...”

Vissick grunted, “Mrs. Pevensie, he’s said much of that already. We’ll probably not get much more sense out of him tonight.”

“Hah! No,” Caspian thumped his forehead into Susan’s shoulder, the pain in his leg was horrible and the cobble and brick was hard, the air was chilly and damp, his head was rather put out with him, as was his stomach. Also, he had to piss, but that would need to wait. “Thought process, trigger,” the words were strung together but some were missing, Caspian did his best to keep it orderly and understandable. “Setting, situation, creation of the scene of the stage. When they made their accusations, when they made their threats, I wanted to kill them. If my body had been more sober, reflex would have had an easier time taking over...and there would be some funerals and murder charges. Knew Susan would be disappointed if I got in trouble, knew Pembles would understand, but also disappointed, knew would upset balance and tolerance of myself in town. If I am rejected by the town or disapproved of, that sentiment will spread to Susan _and that is not acceptable to me_.” 

Susan’s arms tightened around him, a loving kiss to his temple, comforting him, since they were basically alone, waiting in the dark for a way home, and Vissick wasn’t important enough to pay attention to in this case. 

“Thinking poorly of me is fine, but not Susan, she is..." Squeezing her, he looked up, "You are all things good, right, real, worthwhile. So...so I knew I needed to hold their attention, drain them of intent, allow them to feel powerful and to crush the one who whipped them to frenzy...” Voice shaking, “Then, publicly humiliated so soundly as I would be in front of all peers, they would have no reason left to go to the house and harm you. Even if it were an idle threat, I cannot take that chance. No family, no connections Susan, precarious, still new, not local. Risks must be dealt with, because who else is there really left to rely upon?” Shaking his head, “I would do whatever I must, and am happy to do so. In the long run, their actions towards a drunken, wounded, veteran who bends over backwards to be the favourite affable village idiot that everyone likes - it would be viewed like torturing a child for a lark. Then they would be punished, and all risk removed permanently, instead of just temporarily defused...” Letting himself be rocked gently, Caspian heaved a deep breath, “But then Andrew made the mistake of saying he would be going to our home anyway, intending assault. Since time and calm could not be purchased, completely incapacitating them was all that was left to do, since slaying them would be frowned upon. Too bad it would not be considered Darwinism removing the trash from the breeding pool.”

Vissick was staring at him openly then, what could only be some sort of amazement or shock on the old Englishman’s face. But a check to Susan’s expression, the only one that was important really, revealed sorrow. None of them spoke, wasn’t really much else to say. Caspian had given everything that there was to the situation, and that was it. Until whatever legal proceedings were undertaken, it was basically done. _And now Vissick is informed as to my social machinations...blast it all. What is done, is done. He had probably suspected anyway._

Pembles’ automobile had come, and was loaded, Caspian doing his best to not tug or pull too much on those helping him up. His skin showed quite clearly how much worse he had gained in his life, but none of it was recent. He must have grown soft, because Caspian just wanted to curl up, huddled in Susan’s safety, and not come out for a long time. There was a very real sense of disappointment in himself about that, times past, Caspian was quite certain he wouldn’t have been so needy over such a small wound... 

“Beth’s at your house, waiting with a good pot of tea, mph,” Pembles said. “What bloody well happened?”

“Caspian was stabbed in a fight with two of the town thugs,” Susan said, still stroking his temple, not complaining about how he wouldn’t relinquish her. “No turning around the car!” she said sharply when there came a very distinct sound of gear change. “Caspian was quite methodical about putting them down, Pembles. Thankfully he stopped long before finishing them off or doing irreparable harm, and I’m proud he knew when to step back.”

The drive was short, tense, Pembles muttering angrily a good deal of nonsense, lots of ‘louts, head, kick’ and a few unmentionable words mixed in a quiet chain of low noise. Home attained, shuffling, and hopping, leaning, and Caspian gave both the solicitor and his friend stern looks when they had begun to make motions like they would pick him up. Not that they weren’t plenty strong, but that was needless and probably only risked someone hitting their head, pulling a muscle, or dropping Caspian when they got steps crosswise. A little support and a strong shoulder, and Caspian could hop-hobble just fine. If it were up to Caspian, he would have all the others go away so he could suffer and be childish in peace, alternately being lovingly tended or scolded by Susan. But the night’s actions meant trouble, and trouble meant legal problems, and Caspian just wished to be left in peace...


End file.
